


Severed Strings

by jdjseriously



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Action & Romance, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fix-It, Minor Original Character(s), Not Canon Compliant, Original Character(s), Plot Twists, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Video Game: Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-10-13 02:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17479673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdjseriously/pseuds/jdjseriously
Summary: Maeve Bailey was abandoned by a man she thought loved her. Trying to remember how to live life without him, she comes into contact with the infamous Van der Linde gang and is presented with a dangerous opportunity.





	1. Chapter 1: That Night

**Author's Note:**

> I recently finished RDR2, and this idea for a fic is how I'm surviving in my overwhelming bundle of emotions. Updates will hopefully come weekly. Feel free to read (actually please do) and let me know your thoughts. Or if you just want to vent about the game and YOUR bundle of overwhelming emotions, that is also allowed.
> 
> UPDATES EVERY FRIDAY

_That Night: June 1898_  

   
 

Two lovers lay together in a bed, every sheet and blanket ripped away and mismatched yet clinging to their naked forms. On one side was a woman, her wild red locks spilled across the expanse of the mattress lie bloodstains. The curve of her hip was laid bare to the dimly lit room, yet she couldn’t have cared less. A creature in a familiar habitat—the queen of her own kingdom. Tangled into her body was a man. Pure, clean. He had fresh cut hair the color of sunlight and a naive smile pulling on his swollen lips. All was as it should be. Crickets sang on the balcony as if serenading the audience of two. The man nuzzled his face into the bosom of his lover, causing a light laugh to escape her mouth, chest rumbled against the skin of his cheek. 

“Mae…” 

“Yes, love?” 

“I think I’ve loved you before. Many times.” At this, the woman shifted, propping her arm up on the bed. The man stayed still underneath her gaze. There was a quirked eyebrow, and then a grin. 

“That makes absolutely no sense, Amos.” He shook his head. 

“I mean...I can’t have just loved you once. I must have loved you at  _least_ seven times. Past lives, I reckon.” The woman laughed fully, slapping his arm. 

“I think that’s the least Christian thing I’ve ever heard you say. Past lives?  _Hell_ …” Amos snatched her hand from where it lay between them and clutched it to his chest dramatically, blue eyes gleaming. 

“Well, I’m a selfish man,” he stated proudly, “and Miss Maeve, I don’t think one life of loving you is enough for me.” Maeve turned over, muffling her laughter into a pillow. 

“That sounds like,” she gasped in between giggles, “something you’ll have to take up with God.” Amos smiled, all teeth and cheeks, and then rolled on top of his partner, dragging his hands down her sides to pause devilishly positioned just in between her thighs. With a fiendish look in his eye, he grabbed a fist full of blankets to cover their forms and then dove in like a starved man being introduced to the finest of feasts.  

 _“Tell me of God in the morning.”_ The crickets continued their song and the pair started their own. A night-time glow draped over the scene gently, a quiet comfort. And in that moment, all was right in the world. 

   
 

\------- 

   
 

In the morning, Maeve curled up in bed, her hand stretching to the space beside her, grasping only air. 

   
 

\------ 

   
 

 _Valentine, 1899_  

   
 

A year had passed since that morning, and yet Maeve lived and walked on. There were times when she would glance through a window and see someone with his ears or smile and suddenly be transported to that day, thinking maybe finally he had returned. Each time, she felt a piece of hope that had lingered leave along with him. Amos was gone. He was always going to be gone. Maeve found herself wishing that this life was over so he could love her in the next...but maybe he hadn’t even loved her this time around. Anyway, that wasn’t how the world worked. She knew that. 

“Mae, would you come over here and help me brush down Xerxes? It’ll go much faster with two hands.” Maeve started, jerking out of her thoughts.  

“Of course, Eddie.” Eddie Rivers...her employer and owner of the Valentine stables. He was tall and stocky, but gentle, with kind eyes and a small patch of dark hair on his shiny head. Eddie had been one of the first and only people to offer Maeve a job after Amos’ disappearance. With his loss came the loss of a provider, which meant she had been left in the dust financially. At first she had been suspicious, expecting the man to demand favors beyond the job description. But he never did. Eddie turned out to be the miracle she desperately needed. And now, Maeve trusted the older man with her life. 

“Sure is a hot one today.” Eddie commented, wiping one hand across the plane of his brow. 

“My, what revolutionary observation, Mr. Rivers. If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were an esteemed scholar. From where did you graduate?” The woman grinned, teasing, while dragging a brush gently over the palomino that separated them. Over the horse’s back, Eddie rolled his eyes. 

“And if  _I_ didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re runnin’ out of people to poke fun of that aren’t me.” 

“I’m afraid you’re right, my unfortunate friend.” Maeve stated pridefully. Eddie huffed, trying to hide his amusement with false irritation. He leaned forward against Xerxes, arms resting upon the horse’s side, eyes panning out into the horizon. A brow furrowed, his attention fixed beyond her shoulder. Turning around and attempting to follow his gaze, Maeve spotted Eddie’s targets...two men on horseback. One was riding a majestic black Shire, and the other older man a beautiful gray Turkoman. They looked like strangers to Valentine, the younger nearly carrying a full armory on his back.  

“Wonder what they’re here for. Valentine doesn’t exactly draw in tourists.” Maeve muttered quietly, confusion clear on her freckled face. 

“Yes, a couple new folks rode in the other day...and I do believe that’s the man that knocked out our charming Tommy at the saloon the other night.” Eddie stated, sounding both pleased and impressed. Maeve snorted, laughing as she attempted to picture the event. 

“Well, then, thank God for him. Someone needed to.” Then, as if he somehow knew he was being talked about, the man turned his head, gaze falling on the stable and the pair within. This...stranger had hard blue eyes that were somewhat hidden underneath the brim of a black leather hat. A few small scars were littered across his face, along with a light dusting of blonde scruff. The man looked like he had seen the whole world and come out the worse for it. In a way, Maeve felt a kinship with that sentiment. 

His partner was much older but still retained an obvious impression of power and respect. He had neatly styled silver hair and warm yet distant eyes. Maeve wondered if perhaps the two were family. In some strange way, they seemed to carry the same invisible burden. But then again, maybe she was reading too much into it. Amos would have teased. 

“Looks like they’re headed this way, Mae. Remember, we reign in the snark for customers.” 

“Lord help me.” 

The younger man directed his horse into the stable, leaving behind his older friend to wait outside. Eddie approached his horse, running one hand over its dark, shiny neck. 

“That’s a mighty fine horse! You lookin’ to sell?” The man tilted his head slightly to one side, brows furrowed. 

“Ain’t decided yet.” His voice was deep, rough. There was a pause, and Maeve shifted from one foot to another, resting one hand on her lightly cocked hip. She couldn’t resist. 

“Heard you gave Tommy a nice, healthy beating.” At her coarse statement, Eddie groaned.  

“Ignore her, she’s got no hold on that tongue.” But surprisingly, the man’s mouth pulled into a small smile, his blue eyes flashing with quiet amusement. 

“Seems word travels fast. Didn’t have no choice. The idiot jumped us first, I was jus’ defendin’ myself.” Maeve smirked, leaning forward against his horse. 

“If that’s what it looks like, feel free to defend yourself more often.” He nodded, coughing into his kerchief to hide what looked like a shit-eating grin. The woman stepped back, her stomach flipping a bit in pride for making the stranger lose his stoic countenance.  

“Miss Bailey, I’ll have you know if you don’t shut up and start doin’ your job, the idea of a raise will be but a fever dream.” Eddie grumbled, kicking her foot underneath the horse with his own steel-toed boot. 

“All right, all right.” Maeve conceded, holding up both hands sheepishly. There were horses to brush, after all. Unfortunately they were never quite as willing to engage in entertaining conversation. Glancing upward, Maeve swiped one hand across her brow, using the other toi attend to a small yet pretty painted horse they’d received the other day. The local preacher Mr. Downes had sold it, though it seemed to torture him to do so. Rumor was their family had fallen on hard times, and the man always looked the worse for wear as of late. 

Eddie wrapped up the dealings with the stranger and was giving the standard exiting speech, though it didn’t seem as though the man were listening. He had traded the shire for Xerxes, the palomino she’d tended to earlier. Maeve felt somewhat pleased knowing the horse would be in capable hands. 

Seeing that the man was about to trot off and find his friend, the woman stepped forward quickly to wave him off.  

“You take care of Xerxes! Or I’ll have to find someone bigger than Tommy to send after you!” Maeve yelled, smirking, waiting with bated breath on his response. The man turned, looking down on her, reins gripped in one hand. With quiet, authoritative confidence, he teased, 

“Just make sure he knows more ‘bout ‘self defense’ than the last, ma’am.” And with that, the stranger tipped his hat at the two, rejoined his friend, and was gone. 

“I do believe that man had the patience of a saint, Mae.” Eddie jabbed.  

“Oh, hush. He just appreciated a good jest, unlike you.” She retorted, grinning. 

“Appreciated  _you_ , more like.” Maeve laughed loudly, struggling to find her breath for a second, her face flustered.  

“Shut up, Eddie. You know nothin’ of the sort.” Shaking his head, Eddie grabbed the brush out of the redhead’s hands and shoved her lightly towards the entryway doors. 

“I’m sure my wife would agree. Now, git! I’ve had enough of you for today. Go torture someone else with your ridiculous jokes.” She grinned warmly, blowing kisses on her way out. 

“You’re a good man, Eddie! Love you!” With a goodbye wave, Eddie closed the stable doors behind her. Maeve paused to feel the early evening air on her skin, eyes raised to the heavens. A few pale stars were just barely appearing on the horizon. Amos would have pointed them out. The thought made the woman grimace. Even knowing she wasn’t supposed to, thoughts of him invaded her brain like a parasite. It seemed his absence in her mind hadn’t quite caught up to his physical disappearance. And it was...a disappearance. Despite his bluster and tall words, Maeve and the idea of future lives and loving hadn’t been enough for him. And how on Earth could she fault him for that?

 

   
 

 


	2. Chapter Two: A Drink and An Introduction

  

A couple of days later, Maeve was busy working the room at the saloon, passing from person to person to deliver drinks and witty one-liners. Davis, the bartender, liked having young women butter up his customers. And if she didn’t have to worry about money for a week, Maeve figured the extra job was worth it. But somewhere along the way, she had gotten distracted, and the whiskey was too attractive and available to ignore. 

The room was hectic with the heat and rush of townspeople. Within the noise and clamor, the piano in the background accompanied with a fast-paced tune. And there was Maeve, rich red locks spilling across her pale shoulders in the dim lamplight. The men were not immune. Two had their hands placed upon the woman’s body, pulling her in both directions. With a full laugh and a slap on one’s arm, Maeve chastised them with the same behavior she’d use for a child. All in all, that’s what men were.  

The area around her began to spin and colorize like a picture show. One man ducked forward to place a biting kiss on her exposed neck. She was beginning to wonder if she was drunk. 

“You’re drunk! Who gave you a drink?” Davis shouted. Although he appeared mildly concerned, the cash flow of that night was enough to placate him. Maeve shushed him, dramatically pushing a single finger against his lips.  

“I’m jus’...havin’ fun. And makin’  _you_ money.” 

“Just don’t...” He started, but the rest of the sentence was lost to the clamor and bustle around them. There was drink, and there were hands on her skin, leaving what felt like fire in their wake. She was passed from person to person, some wanting a dance, and others a brief grope. Maeve couldn’t find it in herself to care. The night was beautiful. She was beautiful. And then, in a split second she was grabbed from someone’s lap, one hand placed surely upon her covered back. Blue eyes.  _Blue eyes._  

“Amos! You came back. That’s happy!” Two fingers snapped in front of her face. How funny. 

“You’re out of it.” The voice was gruff, low, and concerned. 

“No, I’m Maeve, and you’re Amos!” Tears sprung to her eyes and she jumped forward, burying her head in his shoulder, arms thrown around his neck. The man stiffened. He was solid and warm and quiet, and then he was moving, guiding her towards the door.  

“Maeve? Alright Maeve, let’s get you out o’here.” She couldn’t help but giggle. Something about Amos’ face was funny. 

“I’m so happy you’re...our house was so empty! I’m alone. You took the money! But you didn’t take me! That’s so mean. I cried a lot. Did you cry a lot?” The door swung open and suddenly the world was freezing. The hands on her body were gone for a second, and Maeve startled, looking around to see—oh, good. Amos was still there. He looked uncomfortable. And also...a little bigger than normal. 

A heavy weight draped over Maeve’s shoulders gently. She sighed, melting into the fabric of a sheepskin coat.  

“Where do you live?” Amos didn’t remember where they lived.  

“You mean where do  _we_ live? How silly. You don’t remember.” His blue eyes flashed to meet her own gaze. Pity. The man took a breath and corrected himself. 

“Right, right. Where do we live, Maeve?” 

“We’re close. I really missed you, Amos.” With a lazy smile on her face, she grabbed his hand in hers and clutched it to her chest, beginning to lead them to the other side of town. When she stumbled to the right or left, he steadied her with patient hands and quiet encouragement.  

“You know,” the man started, picking his words carefully, “you shouldn’t let men touch you like that. They...well, they don’t always got good intentions.” Maeve shook her head, snorting a bit. 

“How dumb. I need...money. Eddie an’ the horses are so good! And so is your house. But your house is  _so_ ex...ex-pen-sive. But I wanted to keep it for when you come back! And I was gonna go lookin’ for you! So...money.” She stated, matter-of-fact.  

“Well I don’t think this Amos feller would want you to get...hurt...jus’ for a house. And unfortunately, most runnin’ men don’t wanna be followed when they leave.” He said quietly, and the woman turned to look at him, face all scrunched up.  

“You don’t make no sense.” The man let a wry smile pull at his lips. 

“Neither do you, Miss Bailey. I guess we’re just both very confusin’ people.” 

When the pair reached a two-story farmhouse on the edge of Valentine, Maeve tugged on her partner’s arm, then bowed dramatically, nearly losing her balance and planting her rear end into the dirt. 

“Welcome...home! You’re over a year late for dinner!” The blue-eyed man looked as though he didn’t know whether to laugh or feel incredible pity for her. He decided on the first. 

“I ‘spose the food’s cold by now, huh?” Maeve started giggling and didn’t stop until he ushered her through the front door and closed it behind them. The air inside was much warmer, soothing her goosebumps and making her melt into Amos’ side. He shied away a bit but kept one steady hand situated at her shoulder. The house really was quite beautiful, he thought. Everything was surprisingly upper-class for Valentine. His eyes were drawn to the pictures on the wall, but after glancing at them for a second, he turned away guiltily. Something about that was private.  

“Maeve, think you can make it to bed? Sleep will do a wonder.” 

“You’re not comin’?” The man ducked his head, looking around awkwardly as though he wasn’t sure where to rest his eyes. Maeve shot him a look of pure impatience, stumbling towards the staircase in the middle of the room and gripping the railing to steady herself.  

“I think...uh...I’ve got some stuff to do. You go up and get your beauty sleep and such.” He said, scratching the back of his neck.  

“Yessir...” Maeve drawled. She tipped a bit to the right but then corrected herself, traipsing up the stairs with the grace of a wounded bird. The man stared after her for a second in silent disbelief. Then, making himself comfortable at the kitchen table, he pulled out a worn journal with an animal skin cover. The thing itself looked as though it belonged in his rough, scarred hands. With a slight pause, the man reached into his satchel, pulled out a pencil, and began to write.  _“I’ve gone and done it now...”_  

 

\------- 

 

Morning came quickly and painfully for Maeve Bailey. The birds were sadistically loud, singing their songs as though they came to personally torture her, and the sunlight beaming through her bedroom window didn’t help in any way, shape or form. Perhaps even worse than all of those things combined was a faint memory of last night’s escapade.  

“Oh, shit. Oh  _shit.”_  Immediately, Maeve was up and throwing herself down the stairs with frenzied desperation, nearly tripping over one or two spots before stopping in the entryway of her home. There seemed to be no sign of her late night company. He was gone. Maeve put both hands on either side of her head, pushing back tangled red locks. “I cannot believe myself. You’re a fool, oh  _you’re a fool_!” She groaned, beginning to pace from left to right. And then she froze. 

There, on her kitchen table, lay a piece of paper. She rushed towards it, sweeping it up in one hand, eyes raking across the content with mortified panic.  

 _Miss Bailey,_  

 _In case your memory proves unreliable, I brought you back from the saloon last night. Men weren’t being friendly. I don’t know you none and it was none of my business, so I apologize if I imposed. You did talk of some money issues, and on that I may have an opportunity. If you want to hear me out, me and some friends will be in town today for a little business._ _I’ll be at the stable._  

 _P.S. Sorry I got your hopes up about that Amos feller._  

 _Arthur Morgan_  

 

“Oh lord.” The woman shook her head with equal parts embarrassment and exhaustion. She couldn’t believe her misfortune that it would be  _him_ to come across her in that incredibly awkward situation. And that she would call him  _Amos_! This whole thing was just one unending nightmare. But...this Arthur Morgan...had mentioned  _money_ , and as humiliated as she felt, that didn’t take away from the debt that was owed for Amos’ house, and her...other plans. For that, she’d need a whole lot more funds than could be provided with one job. Maeve took a deep breath, folding up the letter and tucking it into her satchel with a quiet finality. 

It was a quick jaunt to Valentine’s main street, and the weather was clear enough for it to be somewhat pleasant despite her lingering hangover. People bustled to and fro, chattering amongst themselves as they tended to their errands. Maeve weaved in between the small groups of people on her path to the stable. Her mind was buzzing with endless ideas of what Mr. Morgan would possibly offer. Was he a hunter, looking for someone to help day-to-day? No—perhaps a bounty hunter? That seemed more likely, given the weapons he possessed on a regular day.  

Sooner than she could answer all of her own questions, Maeve arrived at the stables. Eddie was working outside, feeding hay to a couple of the newer horses in the fenced in yard. At her approach, he turned his head and, realizing it was her, raised one hand in greeting. 

“Good morning, Mae! Comin’ it to work today?” He asked, patting one horse on the neck and then walking in her direction.  

“No, I’m actually here to meet...Mr. Morgan?” A look of understanding came upon the man’s face. And then, confusion.  

“Guy that was in few days back? What business you got with him?” She waved off the question, sending Eddie a small reassuring smile. Pushing open one stable door slowly, Maeve was greeted with the sight of her new acquaintance saddling up Xerxes. The horse was well groomed and pushed his nose into the owner’s hand eagerly as though searching for treats. It made her smile softly.  

“Feelin’ alright today, Miss Bailey?” Arthur looked over at Maeve, one hand scratching the underside of Xerxes’ chin. If it weren’t for the teasing look in his eye, she might have thought the question came out of genuine concern. But then again, the situation was so ridiculous she couldn’t blame him for making fun. Maeve would have done the same. The woman sighed deeply and then broke out into a light fit of laughter. 

“I have made quite a fool of myself, haven’t I?” She said, grinning sheepishly. He raised a single brow. 

“Aw, don’t you worry. Now I just think you’re a smartmouth  _and_ a drunk.” Maeve choked a bit, covering her flushed face with both hands.  

“I would try to fight it, but it’s not like you’re wrong. Just mean.” 

“I mean no offense,” Arthur corrected, smirking, “many have called me the same things. We oughta start a club.” 

“You shut up.” There was a slight pause in conversation, the two having sufficiently broken the awkwardness that comes with new acquaintances simply by making fun of one another. Arthur dragged his blue eyes up and down across her form, brows furrowed as though he were trying to gauge something she weren’t aware of.  

“So...you’re in need of money.” He said slowly, crossing both arms across his chest. Maeve paused, gathered her resolve, and nodded. 

“The job with Eddie is amazing, and it’s saved me from the streets, but...what I  _didn’t_ let slip last night was that the house isn’t my main concern. Don’t get me wrong, I love it and will probably always be funneling money towards that debt.” Arthur cocked his head a little to the side, studying her intently. “I know it’s probably hopeless,” she said quietly, “but there was something so strange about Amos’ disappearance. I can’t help feeling like he wouldn’t have gone willfully.” 

“So what are you sayin’?” Arthur asked seriously. Maeve took a breath, clutching both hands together tightly behind her back. 

“I’m sayin’ that I need money. But I also need to get out of here and... _try_ to find someone who might know more about what happened. Now, I’m not sure what kind of opportunity you’ve got for making money, but I don’t think you can help me with those problems.” At that explanation, Arthur straightened up, his eyes suddenly holding more interest in Maeve’s proposition. With a slight pause, the man looked at her directly, a certain seriousness now visibly present in his stature. 

“Actually, Maeve, I think I can. Have you ever heard of a man by the name of Dutch Van Der Linde?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting started...also they're two idiots and I love them. That's all. 
> 
> Updates planned every Friday as of now.


	3. Chapter 3: Unlikely Acquaintances

 

Maeve figured she’d never seen any man in her life like Dutch Van Der Linde, and would probably never see one again. On one hand, she wasn’t quite sure  _what_ she had been expecting from the very minimal details Arthur had been willing to offer, but it sure wasn’t this. The three unlikely acquaintances were settled in a quiet corner of the saloon, Dutch nursing a glass of whiskey while Arthur stared at him nervously. The man was seated directly across from Maeve, his dark eyes studying her intently as though there were something specific he was looking to find in her being. One hand reached for his other to twist at a flashy golden ring absentmindedly.  

“Well Miss Bailey,” Dutch drawled, flashing a charming smile, “do you know anything about me? Or, rather, my trade?” Maeve’s eyes darted to Arthur’s, but he shrugged in response.  _What help._  

“I’ve never heard your name before...should I have?” Dutch blinked in surprise and then turned to Arthur, clapping one hand on his shoulder. 

“It seems my boy here has remained rather tight-lipped on that subject, which when I consider it, was probably a good thing.” At this statement, Maeve felt her curiosity grow. It must have shown on her face, because Dutch laughed. He scooted his chair closer to hers and crossed his arms against his richly colored vest, dark eyes flashing with something she couldn’t quite make out. “I’m just gonna give it to you straight, darling. Me and Arthur here, we’ve robbed and killed people.”  

Maeve lost her breath for a second, feeling as though the man had punched her in the gut personally. For just a split second, she turned to look at Arthur to find some sort of validation or explanation, but he kept his gaze trained in the other direction. In some way, she understood his fear. Life wasn’t easy for anyone. She couldn’t blame him for how he had chosen to survive. Maeve paused, taking a second to breathe and collect herself. 

“So...you’re a gang.”  

“Yes.” Dutch held her attention carefully, the earlier bravado wiped away by complete seriousness. 

“Okay.” Arthur jerked in his chair, his eyebrows furrowing deeply as he twisted to face her directly. 

“ _Okay?_ That’s your reaction?” Maeve shrugged, laughing sheepishly at his dumbfounded expression. 

“It surprises me a bit, yes. Though in hindsight I should’ve guessed, really, what with the ridiculous amount of weapons you carry. You sure don’t look like a farmhand, Arthur.”  

“She has a point,” Dutch chuckled, “subtlety was never your strong suit.”  

“I ain’t never said I was a good actor.” Arthur leaned forward to rest his elbows against the table, eyes shifting from Dutch to Maeve curiously. “Maeve, this don’t bother you at all? Can’t believe that.” The woman paused, looking at him with a new understanding. 

“Listen,” she replied, “I have a hard time believing you lot are wholly bad. Arthur here has shown me that I can trust him, whether he meant to or not. And if he’s with you in a gang, then I have to believe that by association you and your people are worth my time.” Dutch smiled softly, eyes gleaming as he turned to face Arthur. 

“An idealist! My, Arthur, I do believe you’ve found us a good woman.”  

“And I do believe you talk too much, Dutch.” Arthur smirked in victory, raising his eyebrows at Maeve as she reddened at the unexpected compliment.  

“Alright my dear,” Dutch concluded, “when do you plan on joining us at camp?” Maeve blinked in surprise. This was all incredibly sudden. She had only met Arthur three days ago and now joining a gang?  _Oh Lord._ Amos would have thought she’d been possessed by a demon. Then again, it was only because of Amos that she’d taken up the offer at all. And if she were being completely selfish, this was all a bit entertaining. 

“I can be ready by this evening if Arthur can show me the way! But we’ll have to have a discussion later, Dutch. Got some things to break down with you.” He winked, leaning forward to grasp her hand with a firm, businesslike shake. 

“I await you with bated breath, Miss Bailey.”  

 

\------- 

 

Arthur Morgan waited outside Maeve’s house, trailing the toe of his boot against the dry ground underfoot and kicking up small clouds of dirt in the process. The hurricane of a woman had blown past him with a fierce excitement in her being. It nearly took off his hat. As he leaned against the porch railing wondering how much longer it could take for a woman to gather her ‘bare essentials’, a man approached in the distance. Arthur squinted, one hand lightly resting on his pistol before recognizing the person’s profile. The stable owner...Eddie. The surname evaded him. 

The man appeared equal parts confused and frustrated. Arthur quickly brushed off his shirt and straightened his hat in an attempt to appear cordial. Confusion and frustration were dangerous emotions when it came to people, especially men.  

“You’re...Arthur Morgan, right?” A bead of sweat formed on the older man’s shiny head. He wiped it away with one gloved hand before it dripped into his eyes and trained his suspicious glare on the armed man.  

“That’s right. Bought a horse off you couple days back.” Arthur acknowledged warily. Eddie shoved both hands into his jean pockets with a weighty silence. His eyes darted toward the house entrance as though he were expecting Maeve to burst out at any moment. She didn’t. 

“Miss Bailey—Maeve...is a friend of me and my family. I guess you could say I’ve been lookin’ after her the past year since her beau took off into the sunset.” Arthur nodded, opting to let the man speak instead of offering thoughts. 

“She’s been actin’ real strange the past couple of days and I got a good feeling it has everythin’ to do with you. I suppose I’d just like to know what your intentions are and what those intentions have to do with you waitin’ outside her house like you’re gonna spring her the moment she steps on the porch.” Eddie finished his slight outburst and took a deep breath, reining himself in before raising his heavy gaze to meet his company’s. Arthur squirmed, mind racing for a suitable excuse but unable to find one.  

“Well, sir, I’m just—”  _Bang._ The front door slammed open loudly. Maeve, in all her wildness and glory shuffled out, her back hugging the entryway as she attempted to balance two large trunks with the higher of the pair wobbling precariously in her arms. Arthur jumped forward to snatch both from her grasp and then toted them dutifully over to where Xerxes was hitched a few feet away. 

“Eddie!” Maeve exclaimed, moving to re-pin a few loose locks into her haphazard bun. “You’ve come at the most delightful time.” 

“I wouldn’t quite call it that.” Arthur mumbled, earning a disapproving look from the man beside him. 

“I was just questioning our dear Mr. Morgan here when you interrupted me.”  

“Should’ve just questioned me,” Maeve laughed, “you’re probably mentally maiming him with your protective father routine.” 

“Well I tried, but you brushed me off yesterday with your rebellious teenager routine.” 

“Oh, that one was good! I think you’re learning from me.” The woman grinned widely, leaning forward to tweak the brim of Arthur’s hat. He glowered, lightly slapping her hand away. Eddie stared down the two with barely contained impatience. Silence settled around the group and Xerxes pulled at his hitched reins, head bobbing restlessly. Arthur coughed awkwardly, trudging over to the horse and pulling out a fresh apple to placate him. A wisp of a cloud passed over the sun momentarily and Maeve’s arms broke out in gooseflesh. She glanced at Eddie, her teasing attitude disappearing with the softening of her hazel eyes. The man placed one hand on top of her own quietly. 

“So...luggage. You’re leavin’ with him then?”  

“It’s complicated, Eddie,” Maeve murmured, “we’ll be in the area for a little while longer, but after that, I can’t say. I don’t think it would be safe for you to know.” Eddie knelt his head to the ground and nodded once, pulling back his hand from their gentle grasp. Maeve drew a single, shaky breath. 

“I just...I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart, Eddie.” He looked at her, tried to hide the slight trembling of his chin. “You and your family have helped me so much. And maybe soon I’ll be able to pay you back.”  

“Ain’t no need...” Eddie shook his head slightly. “Ain’t no need.” Maeve burst into blubbering tears, throwing her arms around the older man with abandon. He staggered backwards with affectionate laughter. “Aw, why am I worried? You’ll be fine. Go with the cowboy. Live a little life out of this miserable town.”  

“I’ll come visit sometimes, I swear.”  

“I know you will, Mae.”  He set her down lightly, brushing off his jacket as Maeve sniffled, eyes bright.  

“Bye, Eddie. Tell the wife and kids I’ll miss ‘em.” The man smiled and nodded once before putting both hands on her shoulders, turning her in the direction of Arthur, and giving a hearty push.  

 

\----- 

 

As it turned out, putting a man and a woman on a horse together was a bit awkward. In an attempt to balance both small trunks that Maeve had smuggled from home, Arthur asked her to sit in front of him with the luggage on her lap while he held the reins from behind her. What the man  _didn’t_ realize at the time was the fact that she held no reservations about pushing her ass right against his crotch.  

“I can’t believe...Jesus, woman. Are you tryin’ to kill me?” Arthur grumbled quietly, attempting to shimmy backwards before anything indecent occurred.  

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Morgan.”  

“Of course you don’t.” Maeve grinned to herself, finding the whole situation incredibly amusing. Arthur was adorably flustered, his eyes trained far into the distance but the color of his face betraying him of any subtlety. How charming. 

“At this rate, if you scoot any further you’ll end up in the dirt,” the woman crooned, “and oh dear—it looks like I’m beginning to lose grip on the luggage!” Arthur scowled and shifted forward, looping one hand around her body to press flat against her lower stomach, dragging her flush against his body in one smooth movement. Just like that, Maeve became the flustered one while Arthur smirked against her neck.  

“Got a grip on the luggage now?” The man's breath trailed heatedly against the skin of her ear and Maeve shivered lightly, trying to hide the incredibly improper thoughts that were clearly projected upon her expression. This hadn’t gone how she’d expected  _at all._ She coughed awkwardly. 

“I think so, thank you Mr. Morgan.”  

“You sure? Wouldn’t want your trunks to take a tumble.” To punctuate, he rolled his hips imperceptibly against her back end with a roguish grin. Maeve choked. With impressive restraint, she held in her startled cry and instead settled for a slap thrown at the man’s arm. 

“You’re horrible.”  

“You started it.” Before the woman could throw a retort his way, the trees on the path began to thicken. Xerxes’ ears twitched, the horse bobbing his head at a familiar location. Arthur’s grip on the reins loosened and he raised one gloved hand to point straight ahead. “We’re right up there. Behave yourself.”  

“Always do.” Then, there came a shout from the right. 

“Who’s there?” A dark, well-built man appeared out of nowhere, a rifle held tightly in his hands. Long black hair tumbled loose across his broad shoulders, and his serious gaze settled on her for a second longer, brows furrowed. He looked dangerous. And beautiful, if she were being honest. Was everyone in this gang created from the superior gene pool?  _Ridiculous._  

Arthur waved, smiling in a relaxed way that Maeve didn’t recognize.  

“Just me. Well, and the new one.” 

“Welcome, then.” The man replied, nodding once in her direction. Seconds later, a couple of wagons drew into view, and then a scattering of tents. A whole group of strangers milled about, clustering and drawing together at the sight of Arthur’s entrance with relative curiosity. Maeve took a second to breathe. If it were possible to physically shove her nerves into a box and lock them away, this would have been the perfect time. Unfortunately, this wasn’t one of her talents. 

Arthur nudged Xerxes forward, guiding him to a nearby fence. In one movement, he slid off of the horse’s back and looped the reins around the post. Immediately after, Arthur nearly emptied out the entire contents of his satchel feeding the impatient beast. It took some impressive effort on the woman’s part to not laugh at their relationship. 

Feeling the weight of several eyes upon her form, Maeve carefully dismounted. Her luggage followed, though with not nearly as much grace. One trunk tumbled to the ground, and the other she balanced precariously against Xerxes’ side with a decent amount of desperation.  

“I got it, I got it,” An unfamiliar woman reached out, flashing a quick smile before taking the last trunk in her arms and settling it safely beside the other. She looked to be in her early thirties, with shiny black hair pinned into a bun atop her head. Incredibly faint wrinkles in their early stages pulled at the corners of her blue eyes.  

“Thank you so much, these things are ridiculously hard to keep hold of.” Maeve grinned sheepishly. 

“I’ll say.” Arthur muttered, scratching the underside of Xerxes’ neck, receiving only a withering glare in response. The new woman shook her head sympathetically, opting to completely ignore Arthur’s complaints as she grasped Maeve’s hand and began to drag her deeper into the camp. 

“My name’s Abigail. You’re Maeve, right? Dutch said.” 

“Well he’s certainly correct. About a lot of things, I’m sure.” Abigail rolled her eyes, cupping a hand around her mouth and leaning in dramatically as though she were about to spill a terrible secret. 

“He’s a man. Don’t they think they’re right ‘bout everything anyway?”  _Oh, she’s a good one._ Maeve grinned wickedly at her new companion. 

“I think I like you.”  

“Well, come meet the rest. We’re not all so charming.” And just like that, she was shepherded past every member of the gang, their names and jobs completely flying over her head. There was...a kid (which imparted a great deal of shock), a delirious pastor, a rather mean looking older lady, a few women her age or younger, and some men who mimicked Arthur’s quieter disposition accompanied by a more frightening number of those who did the opposite. 

 And at that moment, Maeve was struck by the image of a misfit family. They were all so incredibly different...yet the bond and trust that connected each person was nearly palpable. All Maeve’s fears of what the gang could have been disappeared and were replaced by the picture of welcome, and for the first time in her life, she began to realize that Arthur’s gang _—her_ gang _..._ was exactly what she needed at the  _moment_ she needed it.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, we've gotten to a place where the action will actually start. Interesting times ahead.
> 
> P. S. I swear the actual romance will be incredibly slow burn, but Maeve is a horrible flirt. She's horrible in a lot of ways, actually. I love her.


	4. Chapter 4: Transition

 

A couple days had passed since Maeve found her spot within the Van Der Linde gang, and she was beginning to get the hang of things. Which people to avoid or befriend, how to stuff down Pearson’s stew without gagging, and how to appease Susan Grimshaw—the most difficult feat of them all. Admittedly, that one hadn’t been mastered quite yet.  

“Miss Bailey, you’ve had enough time to soak in the sunrise, now how about you do some actual  _work._ In case you weren’t aware, clothes need washin’ in order to be worn.” The older woman nagged, her piercing eyes making Maeve’s stomach roll uncomfortably with anger.  _Every day_  the witch had been at it, cornering her at every turn. Across the campfire, Charles and Dutch were gathered collectively sipping the morning’s brew of coffee and avoiding Grimshaw’s wrath.  

“I suppose I just weren’t aware I was a fuckin’ housewife.” Maeve growled, meeting her opponent’s gaze with equal displeasure. The air stilled. Grimshaw’s figure was ramrod straight as she took several fevered steps forward. Spitting distance. Before either of them had time to throw a punch, Dutch stood, spilling what was left of his coffee onto the ground and clapping one authoritative hand onto Maeve’s shoulder. 

“We all have to do our part, Miss Bailey. Is there something else you’d like to do that benefits us all?”  

“Well...of course. I’m just not sure,” Maeve mumbled, “what I’m good at, but...” 

“I’ll take her hunting.” Everyone paused, turning to look at Charles in surprise. He shrugged, dark eyes studying Maeve with an unreadable expression. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned, so settled on both. 

“I don’t know how to—” 

“I’ll teach you.” At the finality of the statement, the woman nodded silently. She didn’t know the man at all, and now he was offering to spend a whole day in her company? How curious. And convenient. Dutch threw up his hands in relief, his laughter cutting through the tension. 

“There we go! Solutions! And so early in the morning, too. Lovely.” Grimshaw stormed off without another word, the loss having sucked out her fighting spirit. Dutch meandered off on his own, cheerfully humming to himself as though the two women weren’t just ready to throw down in the middle of camp.  _What a man._  

“You ready to head out now, or..?” Charles asked slowly. Long, dark hair tumbled over his broad shoulders carelessly. Maeve couldn’t help but be a little envious.  

“I’m ready, but I don’t have my own horse yet, so how do you wanna go about this?”  

“Borrow Arthur’s. He’s got a bow you can use, too. I’m sure he could use a day off anyways—that man doesn’t stop unless someone makes him.” Maeve blinked at Charles in surprise. A mischievous grin pulled slowly at her lips. 

“Encouraging theft, Mr. Smith?” He laughed unexpectedly. 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed yet, but you’ve joined a gang, not a traveling circus.” 

“You’re kidding!” Maeve feigned shock, clutching one hand to her chest dramatically, “and here I was thinking all these people were just a collection of freaks and unfortunates.”  

“Perhaps we qualify as both.” Charles shook his head, chuckling to himself before heading in the direction of the horses’ grazing patch. “Now come on, grab his horse and let’s go.” 

 

\----- 

 

Three deer. Three  _separate_ deer she’d attempted to shoot, and the arrow ended up feet away from the target, sending all the animals in the area scattering for a place to hide. 

“ _Fuck!”_ At this point, Maeve was beginning to regret complaining about laundry.  

“You’re really bad at this.” Charles stated point blank, appearing more amused than he had a right to be. The woman groaned in frustration, throwing the bow down at her feet and burying her head in her hands.  

“This is useless.  _I’m_ useless. Arthur made such a mistake.” Charles knelt to pick up the discarded weapon. He paused for a second, studying Maeve’s defeated form, and then shoved the bow back into her hands unceremoniously.  

“Just means I’m not teaching you right. Let’s try something else. We’re not going back to camp until you can walk in with a prize deer on your shoulder.” Charles crouched in the grass, passing one hand over the area where the last deer stood. “Went this way. Come on.” And then he went. With no small amount of trepidation, Maeve followed. 

The pair snuck through the bushes quietly, following the herd for a fair distance north. The crunch of dry grass and nettles under her boots made Maeve cringe to herself. It was obvious to everyone and  _everything_ in this forest that she was the trespasser. Charles looked right at home. He moved swiftly, with a stealth that hinted at years of previous experience. Despite Maeve’s failures, the man didn’t appear bothered at all.  _He could give me some of that patience. Maybe wrap it up with a nice little bow._  

“There.” Charles whispered sharply, shifting his body to hover directly behind her. A single deer was grazing about ten yards away. It was young, but large and muscular, with antlers that looked dewy...a pure white. Not yet fully grown in the springtime. Some part of Maeve’s stomach turned uncomfortably in guilt knowing that their victory in locating the buck had been its greatest loss. Charles placed the bow in Maeve's hands lightly, a knowing look flashing through his eyes, but it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared.  

“Now, steady...” He helped her draw back the bowstring, steadying her elbow with one hand and correcting her aim with the other. “Take a deep breath. Let the arrow go on your exhale. You’ve got this.” Maeve trained her eye on the target and stilled. Everything except for herself and the deer ceased to exist completely, the sounds and sights around them blurring and blending to become unrecognizable. And then she breathed. Charles’ hand shifted to rest at her lower back.  _In...and out._  

The deer didn't cry out. It never had a chance. The arrow shot through the space in between them to bury itself deep in the creature’s neck. It stumbled, eyes hazy, and then collapsed to the ground, dead.  

“A clean shot. Very good.”  

“Holy hell.” Maeve breathed, eyes wide. Charles stood beside her and stuck out one hand for her to grab, steadying her as she stood with trembling legs.  

“I think,” Charles stated, a small smile on his face, “we might be able to make something out of you yet, Maeve.” And for once in her life, the woman felt the weight of her own potential. What would Amos have thought of her now? Acting like a whore in the saloon, flirting with strangers, running with a gang, killing animals...would he have been ashamed? Should  _she_ be ashamed? Maeve swallowed hard. Perhaps...the most unnerving thing about this whole experience was that she didn’t. Not for a second. And right now, she was too scared to think about what that meant. 

\----- 

 

Upon their return to the camp, Pearson welcomed the pair with barely contained enthusiasm, but Maeve didn’t pay attention. She couldn’t look at that damn deer for one more second if she was going to stay sane. Ignoring Charles’ concerned glances, she brushed past his form and strode over to the empty hillside. The evening air was thick and warm, yet Maeve couldn’t rid herself of goosebumps.  

“What am I doing? What the  _hell_ am I doing, Amos?”  

“Feeding the camp, I think. And stealing my horse, but I suppose that’s less important.”  _Arthur._ She couldn’t look at him. Burying her head in her hands, Maeve grimaced and attempted to ignore his presence. Unfortunately, that was not so easily done. The man sighed, hesitating a second before settling himself down in the grass beside Maeve. One hand reached out to rest on her knee lightly.  

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong or should I start guessin’?” At her stubborn silence, Arthur groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes to the heavens.  

“Well, here goes...you’re overwhelmed with recent events and are wonderin’ if you’re a bad person now ‘cause you joined the gang.” Maeve’s eyes shot to meet Arthur’s in surprise. He shrugged.  

“I never had the luxury of thinkin’ I was a good person to start with. When Dutch and Hosea found me, I had been livin’ on years upon years of losses. My ma died. Pa did too, but it shoulda been done sooner. He...weren’t a good man. I lost a good lot...and I needed a win desperately. Think they saw that.” At her soft expression, Arthur shook his head. 

“Now, I ain’t been good neither. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve become the kind of person I cursed my pa for bein’. I’ve killed and robbed people who didn’t deserve it...and I'm still tryin’ to figure out what for.” The two sat in silence for a moment, Arthur studying the sunset with an expression Maeve couldn’t quite read. But she took his hand in her own, as though it were a lifeline, and clutched it to her chest. His blue eyes trailed to where their skin met, and then to her face. A pause. 

“I suppose I just thought you should know...it’s okay. To need a win sometimes.” At those words, Maeve smiled softly and gave Arthur back his hand, looking at him as though she had never met a more confounding person in her entire life.  

“Thank you, Arthur. Why is it that you’re always around when I’m havin’ a breakdown?” He smirked, standing up and brushing the grass off of his pants. 

“Probably ‘cause you have so many breakdowns. You don’t let me avoid ‘em.” Maeve choked in laughter, slapping his arm. 

“You’re an  _ass!”_  

“I have been told this before, maybe more than once.” The two walked back to camp, Maeve feeling infinitely more at peace with her lot and Arthur relieved at helping her get there.  

“So you were really the one who shot that deer?” Arthur probed, eyebrows raised as he took in the beast sprawled out on Pearson’s table. 

“Well, you see,” Maeve grinned, “Charles is  _quite_ the teacher.” Arthur snorted in laughter as he noticed the redness blooming on her freckled cheeks. 

“You got distracted by him.”  

“Oh, absolutely.” 

 

\----- 

 

The next morning, Maeve arose to find the majority of the men missing from camp. Whether that was a blessing or an inconvenience was yet to be determined, though the women seemed to be in high spirits. 

“Finally, a quiet camp for once!” Abigail chirped over her cup of coffee, using one hand to gesture for Maeve’s attention. The redhead groaned as she collapsed into the chair opposite her friend and slumped against the table. 

“Missing Arthur?” Abigail grinned deviously, twirling a lock of her dark hair with a single finger. 

“Oh Lord, don’t start. It’s too early.”  

“It most definitely is not!” Karen teased, sauntering over to the pair slowly. Maeve dared to peek at the younger blonde and was greeted with a shit-eating smirk and a wink. 

“Listen, I love you all, I really do. But if you’re gonna try to get me to spill nonexistent secrets at eight in the morning, I’m allowed to be grumpy.” Across the table, Mary-Beth and Tilly seated themselves, each with their respective nosiness on full display.  _I’m trapped._  Maeve pinched the bridge of her nose tightly, brows furrowed in irritation. 

“I’m just curious when you plan on jumping in his bed?” Karen wiggled her eyebrows. Mary-Beth gasped, raising one dainty hand to her chest as Maeve rolled her eyes. 

“Oh, Karen, that’s horrible!”  

“Come on, Bethy...we all want to know how the big oaf does in the sheets!” 

“Okay darlings,” Maeve interrupted, suddenly holding the attention of the entire table, “if I had fucked Arthur, you  _know_ I’d give the proudest, most obvious walk of shame to ever exist. But it’s not like that.” Abigail snorted into her coffee, nearly spilling it over herself in amusement. 

Before anyone could offer another comment, the conversation was disrupted by the sudden arrival of men on horseback. Dutch dismounted and stormed into camp, the sleeves of his white dress shirt spotted with blood. John staggered in with Strauss hanging across his body. One hand was clutched tightly against his side, where a dark red stain was spreading quickly.  

And then there was Arthur. He was none the worse for wear besides a smear of blood on his shoulder...maybe he had carried someone? Maeve strode in his direction, ignoring the impassioned speech that Dutch was conjuring out of thin air.  

“Did you get hit? Are you okay?” The man shrugged off her touch. His face was a mask of frustration and barely concealed exhaustion, and he smelled like gunpowder. 

“M’fine. Could’ve avoided the whole damn thing if we was smarter in the first place.” Maeve blinked, confused. 

“Who jumped you?” 

“Cornwall,” Arthur growled, eyes darting around the camp, “then all of Valentine itself.” Maeve froze, her mind beginning to jump to images she’d rather not give the time of day. In desperation, she reached out and gripped his arm tightly, forcing him to meet her gaze. 

“Did you see Eddie? He wasn’t there, was he?” Arthur’s face softened in realization. 

“No, no. Didn’t seem ‘im. I’m sure he’s fine.” 

“Oh, thank God.” Maeve melted against his arm, forehead resting upon his shoulder in relief. If Eddie had... _no_. He was fine. There was no use in torturing herself over something that hadn’t happened. Arthur paused, grimacing a bit as he dragged his eyes over the flurry and panic of the camp. Dutch was spouting out his usual platitudes and half-constructed speeches while everyone else darted around in an effort to collect their things. It was a nightmare...and something told Maeve that this was a sight in which Arthur was well acquainted.  

“We’ve gotta leave, don’t we.” The woman breathed, hopes deflating. 

“Sure do,” said Mr. Morgan, “Get used to it, darlin’.”  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a little doodle of how I see Maeve, so if you're interested, here's the link
> 
> https://i.imgur.com/jsm45Za.jpg
> 
> I'm not an artist but it was fun regardless


	5. Chapter 5: Descent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that this fic does contain sexual content. Not explicit yet, but will be eventually.

Amos Rawley lazed about on the front porch of his two-story house, elbows perched on the railing as his pale blue eyes studied Valentine’s morning traffic. It was springtime, and a light drizzle was passing overhead. Wagons struggled to turn corners as the heavy wheels got stuck in the road’s thickening mud. The man frowned, pushing himself from his position to yank open the front door. Thankfully, the sight inside was more welcoming.

Maeve Bailey sashayed around the kitchen with a coffee pot in one hand and a porcelain plate in the other. Her hips swayed in tempo with the jaunty tune of the gramophone accompanying the movements. At Amos’ entrance, the redhead placed everything on the table and danced over, an impish grin pulling at her lips. One dainty hand trailed down the length of the man's arm, and with a wink, twisted around to slap his ass. Amos growled jokingly and grasped his partner around the waist. In one movement, Maeve was swept from her feet and thrown over his shoulder. She squealed, face turning an impressive shade of red as her head bobbed upside-down.  _What a particularly pleasant view._

“You touch me like that, you face the consequences.” Amos drawled smugly, incredibly pleased with himself as he toted the woman upstairs towards their bedroom. Despite her lack of breath, Maeve giggled, wiggling her hind end near his head. It took only a few seconds. Amos secured his hands around her torso and dropped her down upon their bed with barely constrained energy. The sheets were still thrown about haphazardly from last night’s sleep, so Maeve settled easily into their depths. 

“Breakfast is going to be cold,” she whined, “and I actually  _tried_ this time. Bacon and all.” Amos didn’t appear at all apologetic. In fact, she had never seen a prouder man.

“My love, I would abandon a thousand delicacies in lieu of your body.” In her eyes there was a subtle shift. Maeve rose from the sheets, crawling on hands and knees toward Amos. He was standing edged up against the front of the bed, gaze locked onto her feline form as she neared him. The woman’s hazel eyes shone with want. For a brief second, he praised God for the familiar sight.

“If you won’t appreciate the meal, perhaps I can find another gift more suited to your tastes.” Amos paused. She looked like a cat that had just cornered a mouse.

“And what would that be?” He questioned, eyes serious. Maeve settled her weight upon her knees, looking up at her lover with unquestioning intent. And then she raised a hand. One finger tapped upon his clothed chest, playing with the shirt’s collar before trailing downwards slowly. And then the button to his trousers was undone, her hand curling around his length with finality. There was a gentle tug, and he had his answer.

 

\-----

 

Maeve jerked awake, a cold sweat clinging to her body from fitful sleep. It wasn’t often that she dreamed of Amos, but when she did...it was hard to tell the difference between the mental story and the world she woke up to. Before, she might have welcomed them—the images and emotions from times past. But now? It was...bittersweet. And that bitterness was oftentimes too much to handle.

“Alright there, Maeve?” Abigail approached the woman’s bedroll, brow furrowed in concern. She was carrying two tin cups—presumably with the morning’s batch of coffee. Maeve rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stood abruptly, snatching one of the mugs from Abigail’s waiting hands.

“I’m splendid. Just need some coffee...you know how mornings are.”

“Right.” Attempting to ignore her friend’s suspicion, Maeve weaved her way through the tents and deposited herself on a log by the campfire. Charles and Arthur had been gone all night trying to find some new place that would please Dutch—however, the tip was from Micah Bell, a notorious  _asshole_ , so Maeve was a bit concerned.

“Looking a bit lonely, miss! Let me remedy that.”  _Speak of the fucking devil._ Micah sauntered over with an incredibly irritating smirk pulling at his lips. Both of his hands were hitched on an oversized belt buckle, hips tilted forward as though he thought she’d want to inspect the area further. Needless to say, she didn’t. Maeve rolled her eyes, crossing her legs and leaning away in disgust as the man seated himself uncomfortably close beside her.

“I’m quite fine without company, Mr. Bell.” She spat, wishing that Arthur or Abigail had given her a knife to threaten him with. Unfortunately, the thought of arming herself hadn’t even crossed her mind until this moment.  _How inconvenient._ Micah’s blonde brows shot up into his hairline. He paused. And then his eyes hardened, face shifted into something unrecognizable.

“Oh come now,” he growled, “surely Arthur’s willing to share his  _whore_.” Maeve saw red. In one swift movement, she threw her coffee cup onto the ground and gripped Micah’s throat tightly, forcing him to stand. The man gasped, trying to take in another breath but failing miserably as the woman’s nails dug into the skin of his neck. A single droplet of blood bubbled up from beneath her ring finger. Micah struggled violently and threw his hands about in desperate search for his holster, but Maeve was faster. She disarmed him in one breath. His pistols were thrown away, and in a fit of nearly inhuman strength, the woman shoved  _hard._ Micah fell into the dirt, his head cracking against the ground with a resounding smack. And then her boot was on his throat.

 _“Jesus, Maeve!”_ Two large hands gripped Maeve’s arms and she stumbled backward, chest heaving. So...Arthur was back.The blood underneath her fingernails was already beginning to dry. Her hair was loose and spread wildly around her face, the red locks appearing like dancing flame in the sunlight. As she was herded away from the action, Maeve could hear Micah moaning and crying out for help as though she’d mortally wounded him.  _Pathetic._

Arthur guided the woman over to rest in the shade of a nearby oak tree, the skin of his hands grazing lightly over her arms, eyes darting across her face. Maeve looked down at her own hands. They were shaking imperceptibly, and several nails were chipped or slightly broken from the tussle. She smirked.

“I think he learned his lesson.” Arthur nearly choked at the pride on her face. 

“Well yes, I’d wager he did. ‘Bout time someone taught ‘im. Didn’t think it’d be you, though.” The redhead shot him a shit-eating grin, her bright hazel eyes flashing in amusement. For a second, he was taken aback, rubbing his jaw with one hand in an attempt to hide the expression.

“I’m starting to realize,” Maeve pondered, “that maybe I’m not quite who Amos thought I was. Or...even who  _I_ thought I was.” She paused, ignoring that slight twinge of guilt in the back of her head. Arthur nodded slowly, taking her hand casually and turning it left and right to examine the damage. His gaze hesitated on the ring finger, brow furrowed.

“You’ve proven that much. But...doesn’t gotta be a bad thing. Could teach you a few things. I’ve got a feelin’ you might be a natural.” 

“Teach me what kinds of things?” Maeve questioned, interest sparking. With her elbows perched upon her knees, she leaned forward into Arthur’s personal space. He reacted immediately, coughing in embarrassment as he drew back and released the grip on her hand.

“I think you’ve got an idea, Miss Bailey.” After a poignant pause, Arthur Morgan reached towards the holster on his side, pulled out his cattleman revolver, and placed the weapon firmly in the woman’s hands. 

\-----

“I thought you said you was gonna teach me how to be a gunslinger!” Maeve complained as she toted her belongings into one of the gang’s wagons. With the sun beating down on Arthur’s back, sweat clung to his white dress shirt, the collar undone. At the sight, Maeve struggled for a second and lost grip on her trunk, sending it tumbling to the ground. Arthur threw the woman an exasperated look.

“Well, sure, but before we can make a killer outta’ you, we need to move.” He stated, gesturing widely at the rest of the luggage. From the left, Abigail and Karen piled a few more trunks onto the already impressive stack. The blonde woman was panting heavily, and she drew one hand across her brow in exhaustion, sunlight filtering through her golden curls.

“You know, I thought the weather here was hot enough, but now Dutch is sayin’ we’re movin’ further south! There’s only so much a woman can handle.” Karen groaned, pulling at the strings of her corset to no avail. Abigail shook her head. Her shoulders were hunched in stress, and her expression made Maeve feel guilty for snubbing her earlier that morning.

“Hey Abigail, how about we ride together on the way to the new place?” The woman in question took a second to breathe. Her blue eyes darted up to study Maeve in all her overcompensating earnestness. The redhead’s eyes were wide in expectation, and she leaned forward openly, a hint of a wince on her lips as though she were waiting for a rejection. The stress and worry melted away as Abigail broke out in relieved laughter. 

“Of course, darlin’. Lord knows you can entertain me better than the others.”

“Hey now,” Karen interjected with a smile, “I’ve been told the same. Though, truth be told, it usually came from...less feminine figures.” 

“Of course it does.” Arthur grumbled. As he dropped two more boxes into the back of the nearest wagon, Dutch and Hosea approached, one looking fairly more optimistic than the other. Dutch brushed off his crimson vest, hands dusting over the golden embellishments with gentle care. 

“All right, everybody,” he called out, “Arthur and Charles have found us a new place to call home. It’s further south and will take us the better part of a day to get to, but you know what that means? New  _opportunities._ An untouched land. A clean slate.” Hosea’s face pinched slightly and Maeve began to wonder whether or not everyone was on board with Dutch’s ideas. Although the man was admirable in sticking to his code, there was something unknown that pulled at the edge of her gut uncomfortably.

Shaking off the strange feeling, Maeve hiked up one foot onto the back of the nearest wagon and lifted herself up to sit on top of some boxes. Abigail followed immediately after, leaning over to offer her son Jack a hand as he was pulled into her lap. John was nowhere to be seen. Probably hitching a ride on the complete other end of the wagon train, if past behavior had anything to say. Finally, Arthur and Hosea jumped up into the front, Hosea grabbing the reins before his younger counterpart could get a word in. 

The gang set off with little fanfare, or as little fanfare as Dutch was able to manage. As the sight of Horseshoe Overlook faded into the distance, Jack squirmed in Abigail’s lap to try and get a better look. 

“When are we going back to the  _other_ camp, mama?” The woman froze, a flash of pain appearing and disappearing on her face in less than a second. 

“Blackwater? No, honey. That’s done. We’ve got a whole bunch of other nice places to check out.” Curiosity roiled in Maeve’s stomach like an angry snake. She popped over the front divider, balancing her chin on Arthur’s shoulder. 

“What happened in Blackwater?” The reaction was immediate. Hosea’s eyes snapped over to her, his entire expression hard and uncomfortable. Arthur’s jaw clenched. He shook his head slowly, catching her eyes with his own.

“That’s not a story for Jack to overhear.” She began to deflate, but Arthur began digging in his satchel for something, putting one hand up as if telling her to wait. After a few seconds, he produced what appeared to be a rough, leather-bound journal and placed it in her hands carefully.

“If you go back a ways, it’ll explain. There’s should be a clover in there...that’s the start of it. But Maeve,” the man stated seriously, “that is  _all_ I am givin’ you permission to read. Don’t go snoopin’.” One look at Hosea proved this was a big deal. With no small amount of appreciation, Maeve brought the journal to her chest and flashed Arthur a huge smile. He turned away in embarrassment, hand scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

“You’re my favorite, Arthur.” Maeve grinned, jumping forward to pepper a quick kiss on his stubbly cheek before retreating to her previous spot in the back of the wagon. Immediately, she opened the journal, trailing one finger over the cover with equal parts wonder and care. If he had entrusted her with this...well. Her stomach jumped. It didn’t take long to find the page Arthur had been referencing. A dried four-leaf clover was tucked against the paper in perfect condition. Something about that childish addition to the journal made her happy in a soft, wispy way.

Without pausing for another second, Maeve started reading, her eyes darting over the page with increasing speed. She was...completely engrossed. Arthur was impressively good at telling a story. His handwriting was elegant somehow, and he was incredibly  _eloquent._ Detailed drawings littered the journal, some taking up entire pages. Animals, people, buildings...Maeve paused for a second, her finger lingering on a portrait of Dutch. Who would have thought...these kinds of words and pictures could come from Arthur? Based upon this journal, he was thoughtful... _intelligent_! But the man never hesitated to let people assume his stupidity. Her brow furrowed. Something about this bothered her more than it should have.

As she continued, Maeve began to see things deteriorating. Arthur’s irritation and sense of betrayal bled through the pages and nearly every sentence. And then, it all came to a head. Maeve swallowed hard. So...they’d lost people. A  _lot_ of people. Jenny, the Callander boys...that loudmouthed Irishman Sean had been captured, though they’d gotten him safe and sound not a far way’s back. And from Arthur’s implications, the whole incident had happened because Dutch had trusted Micah. 

Suddenly, the realization of the gang’s desperation and fear hit Maeve hard. They had been running. Of  _course_ they had been running. Nobody came to Valentine if they had a choice. And technically, they...and now  _herself_ _..._ were still running now. Maeve closed the journal gently, feeling the entire weight of that situation on her shoulders. Without a word, she moved to touch Arthur’s shoulder and reached down, placing the journal back in his satchel. The man studied her face for a second, hesitating at the solemn gaze he received back. And then, with a self-conscious chuckle, he fixed his eyes upon the road.

“Didn’t read nothin’ I didn’t tell you to?”

“Why? What’d you put down in there?” Maeve asked, cocking her head to one side. Surprisingly, Arthur Morgan hesitated.

“Nothin’ special, Miss Bailey. Nothin’ special.”


	6. Chapter 6: Moonshine

 

Over the next few days while the gang worked on finding new leads around Rhodes, Maeve Bailey became closely acquainted with a gun. Arthur had started her “education” and took on the task as a sort of challenge. Surprisingly enough, the woman turned out to be much more adept than he expected—something she loved to brag about often. It had come to the point that Dutch and Arthur felt confident in letting her tag along on ‘errands’ in town, the most recent of which being a friendly little visit to the Braithwaite estate. 

The horses struggled to pull with the weight of the wagon—an entire cart load of moonshine, the bottles clinking against one another with every bump in the road. Maeve had settled herself beside the merchandise, one arm thrown over the side of the wagon to capture the summer air in her palm. Arthur and Hosea were seated in the front, and for a second Maeve was struck by the image of a father and son. The older man squinted his eyes against the sunlight and brushed one hand through his silvery hair, sweat clinging to his fingers.  

“So how do you plan ‘bout goin’ through with this?” Arthur questioned. He seemed rather antsy for what was supposed to be a quick delivery. Maeve studied Hosea’s confident form for reassurance, eyes darting back quickly to eye the bottles. With one hand, the woman ghosted several fingers over the grip of her new volcanic pistol. 

“Well, I don’t know much about this Catherine Braithwaite, but here’s hoping she’s the reasonable sort. This is our way into the boxing ring, so to speak. We sell her the,  _uh_...legally acquired goods and come out with some good money and an influential acquaintance. Two birds.” Hosea concluded, wiping one hand across his weathered brow, yet Arthur seemed unconvinced. 

“Just don’t seem like a good idea, gettin’ involved with both. People ‘round here are more...angry. And I got a hunch they ain’t opposed to murder. Especially over moonshine.” 

“We’ll play it careful, Arthur, but there’s talk of gold, and you and I both know Dutch won’t be satisfied until we find it.” There was... _something_...in Hosea’s voice that Maeve couldn’t quite pinpoint. His face was perfectly blank, yet his fingers tightened around the reigns like a lifeline. 

“What was Dutch like before Micah?” Maeve asked nonchalantly, but Arthur stiffened at the question. Hosea eyed his friend, shrugging as if to say ‘your turn’.  

“I been ridin’ with Dutch for...the only part of my life that’s mattered. In the beginning, we was takin’ money from people with too much and givin’ it to the poor, like some street rat version of Robinhood.” Arthur laughed sharply, hand curling into a fist upon his thigh. 

“I ‘spose I was dumb for thinkin’ it could always be that way. The code we lived by got...stricter...and the money we took went in lock boxes, not pockets.” 

“Did you ever think about leaving?” Maeve asked quietly, watching as Arthur’s eyes flashed to hers in surprise. Hosea turned, interested. 

“Sometimes,” Arthur murmured, eyes downcast, “but where would I have went? The gang is my family. Don’t got no-one else. And Dutch always finds a way to prove me wrong. Right when I start wonderin’...he shows us old Dutch again.” After a slight pause, Hosea threw one hand upon Arthur’s shoulder, giving him a comforting squeeze.  

“It’ll happen again...soon. But first, we ought to tackle this Braithwaite business.” Hosea withdrew his grip and snapped the reins. The horses reared their heads in response, the sweat on their necks nearly glowing in the afternoon sun. 

Just as quickly as he had mentioned it, Braithwaite manor crept into sight through the dense cover of the entryway trees. Their branches drooped low overhead, and Maeve reached up a hand, letting the feathery leaves tickle against her fingertips. Sun spots cut through the greenery to flutter across the woman’s freckled face, and a slow, content smile pulled at her lips. Before she could enjoy the scenery for another second, several men with rifles tucked to their chests approached the wagon. Their mouths were set in identical hard lines, eyes flashing in suspicion. 

“Mrs. Braithwaite isn’t expecting any visitors. I suggest you make yourself scarce.” One snapped, finger lingering over the trigger of his gun with obvious eagerness. Hosea smiled. His form almost looked completely different, and Maeve blinked. In the few seconds it had taken for the guards to approach, the man had put on a new face and name...a persona.  _Arthur said he was a con man...he didn’t_ _lie._  

“Well, my good sir, I believe we have some product she might be interested in!” At Hosea’s cue, Maeve shot up, tugging back the wagon’s tarp to reveal the moonshine haul. She slapped the nearest bottle, shooting a confident grin at their audience. 

“Dare I say this is the best shine to date.” She crooned. The older guard approached the back of the wagon, interested, while the two others allowed their eyes to drag over the redhead’s figure. 

“Didn’t know women were in the habit ‘o sellin’ alcohol.” Arthur stiffened up at the boy’s comment and shifted his body back towards where Maeve perched by the moonshine. Before he could offer any unnecessary threat, Maeve trailed one hand down his arm soothingly and bent forward over the side of the wagon, offering the guards a generous view of her cleavage. 

“Anythin’ that gets my husband coin is worth the effort, mister. Right, love?” The redhead shot a pointed look in Arthur’s direction, who huffed and turned away in response.  _Men._  

“Alright,” the first guard drawled, “I ‘spose Mrs. Braithwaite might be interested. Go on.” With a pinched smile, Hosea snapped the reins and pulled in front of the manor. The house was colossal in its own right. Large, intimidating pillars framed the entryway and supported the structure from first to second floor. The wrap around porch was stately and open, backed by huge arched windows. For a moment, Maeve felt the skin on the back of her neck tingle uncomfortably. 

“They’re watching.” Her eyes darted to Hosea, who simply nodded in silence. In a single second, the man had dropped his persona to become an entirely different person. He hopped down from the wagon with a jaunty smile and began to approach the house. The line of the older man’s back was ramrod straight—shoulders held high as though there was nothing in the world to be concerned about.  

“Catherine Braithwaite!” Hosea shouted, hands fixed firmly upon his hips, “I do believe I have some product you’ll be interested in! Come on out!” Maeve glanced at Arthur, who was shaking his head in disbelief. 

It didn’t take long. In a single breath of a moment, the double doors to Braithwaite manor were thrown wide open. Three figured stepped outside. On either side were two lanky men, similar in appearance and wearing identical sneers. However, the woman between them was something else entirely. Maeve had never seen anyone more intimidating. She was old, that much was clear. But there was a severity and authority in her presence that made each of them freeze in anticipation. 

“You’ve brought me my own alcohol. How...shameless.” Maeve’s eyes widened in concern, but Hosea didn’t miss a beat. 

“Well, ma’am, it isn’t yours yet, but for a fair price it shall be!”  

 _“It was already mine.”_ Mrs. Braithwaite snarled, shaking slightly in anger, and her sons immediately drew their guns, fingers ready to pull at the slightest sign. Arthur’s hands were clenched into fists, fingers white. Hosea smiled. He raised his hands as if in surrender but stared the older woman down, challenging. 

“Why, I don’t think anyone should die over alcohol, ma’am. Do you?” There was a tense, pregnant pause. 

“Give him the money.” The men dropped their weapons, one of them disappearing inside the house without another word. Not for one second did Catherine Braithwaite break her gaze from Hosea.  

“In fact, I’ll give you a bonus if you deliver that shine for me.” Maeve’s brows shot up into her hairline in surprise, but Hosea jumped up at the offer. 

“Sounds tempting. Where to?”  

“There’s a bar in Rhodes,” the woman smirked, “A fine establishment, really. Owned by the Grays. Go give the customers a little gift...serve the moonshine for  _free_.” A smile pulled at Hosea’s mouth and he ducked his head towards her in acceptance. 

“I believe we can do that, right my friends?”  

“Of course.” Arthur tipped his hat to cover the scowl that was beginning to grow on his face, Mrs. Braithwaite being none the wiser. Hosea threw one leg up on the wagon and hoisted his body up with the help of a hand from his younger partner. Just like that, the woman of the house disappeared and the door to Braithwaite manor slammed closed with a cold finality. Maeve let out the breath she had been holding, clutching one hand to her chest. 

“I’m not quite sure why that was terrifying, but... _jesus_ _.”_ Hosea chuckled, throwing back one hand to pat her on the shoulder and using the other to snap the reins once again. Once they had cleared the entrance and were well on their way, the older man let loose a full-belly laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“You’re at natural at fooling men, Miss Bailey.” Hosea mused, making Arthur choke in embarrassment. The redhead grinned devilishly, brushing two hands over her exposed neckline.  _No shame._  

“Of course I am. I’ve had years of practice.”  

“Did you  _have_ to drag me into it?” Arthur grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. In one smooth movement, Maeve jumped over the wagon barrier and squeezed herself in between Arthur and Hosea. She threw one arm over the younger one’s shoulder and hugged him like someone swooning over a child. 

“Probably not. But you’re so fun to tease.” Arthur swatted the woman’s hand away and shifted as far away from her as possible without taking a tumble onto the ground.  

“You might have to tease him a bit longer,” Hosea suggested, “it would be best if we played roles for this. Just to be safe.” Arthur groaned. Maeve had half a mind to think the man might abandon ship and simply walk back to camp. 

“You know how I feel about acting, Hosea.”  

“Oh, come now. It won’t be so bad. I’ll be the clown, you’ll be the brother turned idiot, and Maeve can be the prostitute we’ve hired!”  

“I mean, that’s easy enough.” Maeve shrugged, grinning as she watched the younger cowboy nearly crumble into himself. Hosea completely ignored Arthur’s frustration and reached back into the wagon to grab a straw hat. 

“Where did you even  _get_ that?”  

“Oh hush, Arthur—no,  _Fenton._ Remember, you’ve gone idiot.” Hosea swapped Arthur’s beloved hat for the new one, squinting his eyes as he positioned it correctly. The whole situation was so ridiculous that Maeve had trouble keeping the laughter down, but she knew if she let loose even  _one_ giggle, Arthur was out. 

“Now, take this pipe. Wonderful. Stick out your lower lip a little, and...perfect.” Hosea slapped the younger man on the shoulder and turned to face Maeve, eyes curious and attentive as though he were waiting for her to do something. 

“What do you think you should do, my dear?” A test. Immediately, a wolfish smile pulled at the woman’s lips. She flew into movement. Her fiery hair was released from the loose bun, locks tumbling down to her back effortlessly. With just a few adjustments, Maeve’s corset was tightened to the point where her breasts were on the edge of spilling out. After pinching her cheeks a few times, the woman straightened and caught Hosea’s eye, eyebrows raised in question. He was glowing—smile stretching across his face like a proud father who’d just seen his son kill his first buck. 

“Perfect. And just in time.” The Rhodes parlor house sat right at the entrance to the small town. Light spilled out of the windows onto the ground, and the sounds of a jaunty piano tune made the horses’ ears perk up in attention. It was a full house.  

“Got your gun on you?” Arthur turned to Maeve, brows furrowed. She opened up the flap to her satchel, showing off the beautiful volcanic pistol that hid inside. He nodded once, eyes serious. 

“This could get messy,” Hosea interrupted, “so it would be wise for us all to keep armed. Arthur knows this, and you’ve been prepared. Remember what he’s taught you and you’ll be perfectly fine.” With a quick smile, Hosea hopped off the wagon and approached the side of the building where two employees were taking a smoke break. Arthur jumped down onto the ground and then raised one hand for Maeve to grab on her way down. There was something about the simplicity of that action that made her cheeks flush.  _We have_ _no time for this._ She shook it off. Nearby, Hosea was working his magic. 

“Yes, we just rode in from up north! Quite a beautiful place you got here! My name is Melvin, and here’s my brother Fenton and our...lovely companion.” Arthur grabbed a crate of moonshine and the two walked over to where Hosea was spinning his yarn.  

“Now, don’t worry about Fenton. He’s went and gone idiot, but he’s a good worker. Just don’t get him angry! Our mother did, and she’s six feet under!”  _Dear god._ He was...ridiculously good at this. The two men looked somewhat suspicious but Hosea was relentless. 

“And  _here_ ,” he gestured towards Maeve dramatically, “is our beautiful Penny. Well, I say she’s ours but we only paid for the night. Now,  _all_ we ask for is an hour.” The older man slipped both workers a couple dollars while keeping the smile plastered on his face, and that was all it took. In a few seconds, they were cleared out, eagerly taking their smoke break elsewhere with a nice deal of hush money in their pockets. 

“Alright my friends, let’s go.” The trio strolled into the parlor house, Hosea immediately taking his role of advertiser and Arthur settling himself behind the bar with a crate full of moonshine. With Hosea’s offer of free alcohol, the customers eagerly filed over to where “Fenton” was making headway with a line of shots. As the piano gradually picked up in volume, Maeve meandered through the groups of men, letting her hand trail along each body for a moment longer than was socially acceptable. It didn’t take long before they were under her spell. Men were easy. 

“Penny, over here!” 

“Bring me a shot, Penny!” 

“Come sit in my lap, darlin’!” 

“How much you cost?” Soon enough, the entire parlor house was filled to the roof with the sounds of raucous laughter, the clinking of glasses, and an over-enthusiastic pianist. Maeve lost herself in the noise. There were hands on her arm. Hands on her back. Hands on her chest. Hands in her hair. Despite it all, she was thrumming with power. Feeding on their desire, she weaved in between men, never letting any of them touch for longer than a moment. For a second, Maeve was reminded of Valentine. Of Arthur’s guiding hand, his coat draped around her shoulders. Of his quiet reassurance. And, of course, of Amos. 

The door to the parlor was thrown open. Several heavily armed men sauntered inside, each hand resting upon their own gun. Maeve froze. From across the room, Arthur looked at her with all-encompassing concern, and then the building broke out into chaos. Maeve dove behind a table, bullets flying through their air, eager to find targets. She would not be one. Customers tripped over themselves to exit the building, but Arthur and Hosea stood their ground, taking out men one by one. A single raider dropped dead on the ground beside Maeve. There was a bullet buried in his forehead. A pool of blood collected from beneath him, staining the bottom of her boots and making the floor sticky. 

In a single breath, Maeve reached into her satchel and pulled out the brand-new, shiny pistol. She pulled back the hammer. And then, she was tackled, gun skidding across the wooden floor just out of reach. A large, brutish man shoved Maeve to the ground with a grunt. His hands found purchase around her throat, grip tightening by the second. Spots began to swim in her vision. 

In a flash, there was Amos, cooking breakfast and humming her favorite song. He turned slowly, pale blue eyes soft as she approached and threaded her arms around his waist. Maeve buried her forehead into her lover’s chest. For some reason, air was hard to come by. Amos stopped humming and drew Maeve close, placing one finger on the bottom of her chin to lift her face to his.  

“Are you going to let him kill you, my love?” She blinked, brows furrowed. 

“What are you talking about?” Amos smiled. 

“Your gun fell. It’s on the floor to your right, but you can reach it.”  

“I don’t... _what are you talking about?_ ” Amos knelt his head, placing a feathery-light kiss upon her neck. 

“You’re going to pick up that pistol. On your right, remember? And you’re going to put the barrel against his forehead, and you’re going to pull the trigger.” Maeve struggled against his grip, face stricken. 

“You’re scaring me, Amos.” He shook his head, eyes serious, blank. 

“You’re going to kill him. I’m sorry. I love you.” And then he was gone, his touch but a ghost on her body. 

Maeve struggled, writhing against the floor as her airway was crushed. The man’s eyes met her own, his intent to kill obvious in the fury he carried. But then, in that moment, there was a strange, unknown calm. It melted over her like a ray of afternoon sun, stilling the shake in her hands and awarding her lungs with one full, painful breath.  

Maeve reached. Her hand curled around the grip of a pistol, finger firmly on the trigger. And with that last burst of strength, she raised the gun against her enemy, placed the barrel to the skin of his forehead, and pulled. 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7: Remembrance

 

“She killed near ten people, Dutch. While injured.” Arthur Morgan was huddled next to the older man in his tent, brow set and eyes trained on the subject of their conversation, who was cleaning her gun by the campfire as though nothing had happened. Her neck was blooming with all sorts of ungodly colors that made the man’s stomach roil. 

“Maeve? Surely not. The woman learned how to shoot not even a week ago!” Dutch hummed, rolling a cigarette with an expression that suggested he wasn’t near as surprised or worried as Arthur desired. 

“I am  _wholly_ serious. It ain’t...normal. More I think on it, more...concerned it makes me.” 

“What do you want me to say, Arthur? Should I chastise a woman for doin’ what she had to survive? If anything, she should be congratulated. Becoming a gunslinger that fast is...impressive.” Arthur froze, stricken. 

“We’ve ruined her, Dutch!” Letting the silence settle, Dutch took a drag from his joint, tendrils of smoke wafting around his visage as though it were greeting a close friend. 

“Be careful in who you place blame,” he breathed, “we all know who put the gun in her hand.” Arthur’s eyes widened in disbelief. Blood rushed up to his chest and neck, the redness of anger creeping up over his shirt collar in record time. 

“Don’t you fucking say that to me. She was alone and desperate.  _How_ was I supposed to know to do any different when that was all you taught me?” Dutch dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed it underneath the toe of his boot. He placed one heavy hand upon Arthur’s shoulder, smoky eyes glinting with something unrecognizable.  

“Son, look at her.” He did. Maeve was perched on a log by the campfire, long legs tucked beside her. Beautiful, coppery hair fell across her shoulders with natural ease, tendrils resting against the skin of her bosom and drawing the eye to barely visible cleavage. Dutch hummed. 

“Don’t pretend you brought that creature here because of charity _._ You’re an upstanding man, Arthur. But men have limits and  _motivations._ Look me in the eye and tell me there wasn’t some part of you wanting to bed her.” Arthur whipped his shoulder out of Dutch’s grasp, hands clenched into trembling fists at his sides and eyes flashing with something like fire. 

“You,” he growled, “ _insult me.”_ In that single second, Arthur was gone. He marched out of Dutch’s tent, boots digging into the ground with the force of his escape. Though he ignored the majority of concerned glances thrown his way, Maeve jumped up to follow regardless, leaving behind the half-cleaned pistol without another thought. She reached out to touch Arthur but he jerked away, face stony. The bitter sting of rejection bloomed in the woman’s chest yet she followed hot on his trail. As the two came to stand by a nearby cliffside, Arthur halted and froze for a second, head knelt against his chest. 

“Do you think of me as...no—do you think I’m usin’ you?” Anguish flashed across the man’s face and he turned, wide eyes like a child’s meeting her own. 

“Is all the touchin’ and flirtin’...do you think you _owe_ me?” Maeve shook her head slowly, realization hitting her like a brick to the gut. Arthur looked like he was ready to be hung on the gallows and had handed her the rope to do so. 

“Arthur, I owe you everything—” 

“Good _god._ Don’t say that to me. Don’t you dare say that to me.” 

“Please listen, you’re hearing me wrong.” Maeve begged, gripping Arthur’s shoulders and forcing him to look at her. For a moment he struggled, and then...gave up, going limp in her hands. Maeve breathed a sigh of relief and attempted to organize her thoughts into words while the man waited in silence. 

“I’m grateful,” she choked out, “ _so_ grateful. For how you’ve treated me and for giving me the choices that I have now. But I don’t treat you the way that I do because I’m  _grateful_ , and I’m so sorry if you ever thought that.” Arthur began to shake his head but she threw up one hand, gesturing for him to stop. Her brow was pinched, eyes watering.  

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what to say to you. I know I don’t owe you my body, but sometimes I  _want_...to.” At her words, Arthur froze, eyes wide. Maeve laughed and threw her face into her hands with shame. 

“That’s horrible and debauched, and probably the worst thing I’ve ever said in my life, which—” she broke off in laughter, “is  _really_ saying something.” Her amusement disappeared just as quickly as it had happened, fading more into guilt with every second. 

“But I still love Amos. I really do. And at the exact moment my mind wanders and I desire you, I wish that I could see him. I just...I don’t...” 

“Maeve, it’s okay—” 

“No, it’s not.” The two paused. Arthur looked...tortured. Like he was simultaneously wanting to reach out and holding himself back. Maeve lifted one hand to place over his but stopped midway, pulling back to clutch the wayward arm to her chest. 

“Arthur Morgan, I am not a good woman. I never was, but I’m even less so now. You and I both know I didn’t kill all those people for survival. I saw something then, in that moment. And I wanted— _needed_ to see it again. Those nine people suffered because of that. You deserve better than someone like me, for so many reasons.” Arthur’s face twisted in anger. 

“So, what? That’s it? You’re not even gonna let me decide what I deserve? What gives you the impression I’m a good man? I’ve killed people. Hundreds. Abandoned ‘em, threatened ‘em, killed their family! I had a girl and a  _son!_ Wanna know how they died?” Maeve gaped, rooted to the spot as Arthur paced back and forth, ripping his hands through his hair in aggravation. His head snapped to face her, eyes wounded and furious. 

“Robbed an’ murdered, for ten dollars. 'Cause I wasn’t there enough.” Arthur wilted visibly, shoulders falling limp as the fight left his body in a single breath. 

“Arthur,” Maeve breathed, “you couldn’t have known that would happen.” But he didn’t respond, didn’t even look in her direction. And despite everything inside of her that was screaming to do otherwise, Maeve let him walk away. 

 

\----- 

 

She stayed on that cliffside for a long time. The early morning light had long faded, bleeding out into the southern sunset. Maeve had settled on the very edge of the drop off, her legs dangling over the drop, feet bobbing to an imaginary song. The silence brought clarity—or at least an opportunity to mull over life mistakes, of which she had a good supply. Maeve poked a finger into the ground, trailing along the small patch of grass to her left. Dirt collected underneath her fingernail and she grimaced. 

And then, footsteps broke her silent reverie.  

“You’re quite talented at moping.”  _Charles._ Maeve plastered a smile over her face, jerking into a more palatable mood in hopes that he would take it honestly. He didn’t. The large man huffed with something like annoyance and sat down, settling his large body onto the ground beside her. Maeve could tell he was studying her—looking for what, she wasn’t sure. Tears? Bruises? 

“You two have been gone for awhile. People were worried, so I tracked you here but it seems like Arthur...” He trailed off, eyebrow raised. Maeve shook her head.  

“He left a long time ago. I just felt like stayin’.” Charles hummed, dark eyes narrowing as he took in her appearance further. 

“He’s a hard man. I haven’t known him for as long as the others have, but he’s...” 

“I know.” Maeve nodded and turned to face Charles, brows furrowed. 

“I’m not expecting anything from him. It was wrong of me to forget why I really joined the gang. Yesterday was...a reminder.” 

“Why  _did_ you join? I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned that.” Maeve shifted uncomfortably under Charles’ scrutiny and shifted her gaze elsewhere. He waited with utmost patience. 

“I guess I’m trying to find someone,” she muttered, eyes downcast, “a man who left me. Or, maybe...I don’t know. Try to become something—some _one_  in the absence of him. Maybe my goal was more selfish that I was initially willing to accept. Maybe it had nothing to do with him at all.” Maeve smoothed her hands over the planes of her skirt and sighed, shaking her head in defeat.  

There was a moment where neither of them had anything to say and the silence was filled with the sound of the slight breeze and birds in the distance. Charles’ eyes slowly fixed onto the woman’s legs dangling over the precipice, face confusingly blank. In a smooth movement, he reached over, one hand on each of her ankles, and lifted both legs to tuck them against the side of her body. For a brief second, Charles let the palm of his hand rest on the skin of her calf. He was warm and...steady. And then he pulled back, expression betraying nothing. 

“Do you want to know why I joined?” Maeve startled, face hot. 

“Yes, of course.” 

“I had been running on my own for awhile. For most of my life, really. But there’s a certain cost that comes with that lifestyle.” Charles turned, mouth pressed thin, and Maeve nodded for him to continue. 

“Every night, you wonder if someone’s gonna come and slit your throat before you wake up. It’s a real possibility. And every job you take up, the weight is on you to follow through completely, no matter the challenge physically or emotionally. It’s a lot less about living and more about surviving.” 

“Sounds like the opposite of what Dutch preaches.” Charles chuckled quietly, lips twitching at her observation. 

“Absolutely. He may go a bit overboard with...pretty much everything, but he’s right about that. I got tired of having to look over my back all the time—or rather, being the only one doing it for me.” Maeve attempted to keep serious, but the giggles bubbled up out of her throat despite her best efforts. 

“I’d be  _so glad_  to look after your back, Charles.” The man grinned and shoved some dirt in her direction. 

“Shut up. I really mean it.” 

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Continue.” Charles shook his head as Maeve brushed off her skirt from his underhanded retaliation, crumbles of dirt raining back onto the ground, each one more amusing than the next.  

“This gang can be incredibly frustrating and irritating at times, but having a group of people always looking out for you is invaluable. Even if we do throw dirt at you sometimes. Or...leave you by a cliff without thinking about the man who’d have to track you down.” Maeve smiled softly, the stress of the situation having left long ago, if not with a little help. 

“I get it. I know,” she griped, “you’re aware I wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon?” Charles grimaced dramatically, feigning intense despair and throwing the back of his hand against his forehead like a woman on the brink of fainting. 

“I would never recover. Taima would tout my body across the countryside, searching for you until the hair on my head has all but disappeared.” 

“That’s gotta be a long time. You have a lot of hair.” 

“That makes it even more tragic.” The two bent over one another, laughter filling the air of the clearing with a full, peaceful sort of ‘right-ness’. And as the sun set over the far western hillside, Maeve’s sorrows disappeared as if they had never been there in the first place. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little bit shorter than usual--but because the last was longer, I'm giving myself a pass. I'm hoping to incorporate a mission into chapter eight, so that'll help the length for the next as well. I aim to please.


	8. Chapter 8: Feeding Naivety

 

Arthur and Hosea stood at the edge of Flat Iron Lake, water lapping at the tips of their boots as they exchanged in casual conversation. The older of the pair rested his hand upon his partner’s shoulder as though he were reassuring a son. 

“Hosea, could you do somethin’ for me?” Arthur shifted uncomfortably like the question pained him to ask. 

“Of course, Arthur. Name it.” 

“There’s a man named Amos Rawley—used to live in Valentine,” Arthur murmured, “went missin’ around a year ago. Could you...see if you can find any information ‘bout him? In Rhodes, maybe.” Hosea’s face scrunched up a bit in confusion. 

“Well sure, but...isn’t that Maeve’s man? Does she know you’re huntin’ for him?” Arthur looked down at his boots, frown pulling at his mouth. 

“No, she don’t. And I’d prefer she not know.” 

“Is that smart?”  

“Probably not,” Arthur kicked his boot into the shoreline, sending a stone flying into the lake, “but I'm startin' to wonder if _I_ need to find him just as much. And...I think I do."

 

\----- 

 

Getting back to work with Arthur had been nothing other than ridiculously frustrating. He seemed to be adamant about avoiding any conversation despite Maeve’s desire to fix what had happened between them earlier that week, and every time she turned to face him, the man was suddenly paces away or in a different room. Unfortunately, Maeve Bailey was not one to be ignored.  

“You’re going to have to talk to me eventually, Arthur.”  _Silence._  

“This is ridiculous! Be an adult and talk to me!”  _Silence._  

 _“Don’t make me drag Hosea into this!”_ Silence  _and_ a glare.  _How generous._ Maeve dug her toes into her Appaloosa’s sides and the horse huffed, rearing a bit before picking up the pace to ride shoulder to shoulder with Arthur and Xerxes. Unsurprisingly, the man kept his gaze trained straight ahead in a refusal to acknowledge her presence. In the distance, the Gray estate grew closer, the impressive buildings stretching out next to acres of their equally impressive tobacco fields. For a second, Maeve forgot about her anger and took it all in, breath short. The Braithwaite manor had been beautiful, no doubt. But there was something about the classic colonial style of Caliga Hall that Maeve appreciated more. 

Arthur patted Xerxes on the neck, leading him through the front gates with relative ease as his eyes scanned the area for any threat; yet the Gray employees seemed to be going about their day with little concern for their new guests. At the front of the house, a groundskeeper sweeping the front porch paused at the pair’s approach, his brow furrowed. 

“What’s your business? Weren’t expecting any guests.” Arthur dismounted Xerxes, hitching him to a nearby fence and closing the distance between the worker and himself. 

“Lookin’ for someone who could tell me a bit ‘bout the Grays. I’m interested.” As she tied up her own horse, Maeve winced at Arthur’s lack of bravado or fake storyline. He certainly wasn’t Hosea. 

“You’d be lookin’ for master Beau, then. Last I saw him, he was out over by the wood store. That boy’s got all the time in the world to do absolutely nothin’.” 

“No doubt.” Arthur drawled, stalking off without another word to the laborer  _or_ Maeve, who was left to scramble after him mumbling obscenities as she went. True to the groundkeeper’s words, a young man was perched against the side of nearby brick building, loitering in the shade with a weathered book grasped carefully in his hands. He was exceptionally pretty for a man, Maeve noted. If she had only looked at the state of his neatly curled hair, she might have mistaken him for a woman. 

At their approach, the young man let his pale blue eyes wander from his reading material, resting on Maeve for a lengthy moment. He blinked in surprise. Snapping the book closed, he tucked it underneath his arm and let a lazy smile grow over his face as he bent over into a bow, hand extended in greeting. 

“What must I have done to be bestowed with such great luck as I am today? Surely being in the presence of this beauty is a favor from God, miss. Don’t you agree?” Maeve struggled to mask her mirth as Arthur stiffened beside her, jaw set. 

“You’re absolutely right. My friend Arthur here is just the prettiest belle of the ball, ain’t he?” The young man choked out a laugh and nodded vehemently. Needless to say, Arthur wasn’t amused. 

“You’re Beau Gray, right?”  _Straight to business._  

“You are correct, sir. Though I find myself not so proud to carry that name as of late.” Beau looked off into the distance, his face darkening. 

“Well sure,” Arthur quipped, “it’s more like somethin’ you’d name a dog, right?” Maeve reached out to slap his arm but was rewarded with no response. Thankfully, Beau’s lips twitched into a small grin. 

“You’d have to take the matter up with my father. However, the man is an idiot and a drunkard, so the conversation would be fruitless. A shame, really.” 

“You don’t seem to carry much love for your family.” Maeve probed, watching Beau’s nose wrinkle up as though a dead raccoon were delivered right to his feet.  

“Of course I don’t. To be candid, there is only one thing in this entire world that carries my heart, and I can’t have her. My family means nothing compared to Penelope.” Now  _this_ was interesting.  

“Penelope?” She asked, and the floodgates were opened. Beau began to pace. 

“Penelope Braithwaite. She’s the most divine creature that has ever walked upon this godforsaken Earth. I love her as I have loved nothing else, and yet if we allowed ourselves to be together, it would mean death for us both.” 

“Surely you’re just bein’ dramatic.” Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, letting a sigh escape his mouth. Maeve slapped him once more for good measure. 

“Sir, respectfully, this situation requires far more drama than I’m currently giving. Our families have hated each other passionately for as long as I can remember, and then some.” Beau nearly folded into himself, despair leaking through his every pore.  

“It kills me to be without her, yet it would kill me to have her. The devil himself couldn’t have designed such torture.” There was a moment’s pause, and Arthur nodded once, kneeling to pick up the young man’s discarded book and forcing it back into his hands. 

“Well, good luck with that.” And then he began to walk away, leaving Maeve gaping in shock. 

“We can’t just leave him like this, Arthur! Jesus  _Christ_.” Beau’s face lit up with an idea and he immediately went scrounging through his coat pockets to come up with a crumpled letter and a small box. 

“Please, if you’re heading that way anyway, please bring this letter and gift—if you say it’s from me, she’ll take it with no trouble. Please.” He shoved the items into Arthur’s hands despite his protest, clearly too eager to be turned down. 

“I’d really rather not—” 

“I’ll pay.” Arthur paused, tucking the box and letter into his satchel with utmost care. 

“I  _suppose_ we can make a slight detour.” Arthur grumbled, and the stress melted off of Beau’s shoulders. He shot a lighthearted grin in Maeve’s direction, brows raised. 

“Penelope will _adore_ you two. Such stark opposites. You truly make a lovely couple.” Arthur and Maeve froze simultaneously. It took only a second for Arthur to whip around, sputtering denials with impressive vehemence as Maeve crossed her arms against her chest tightly. 

“We do, don’t we? I don’t know why he insists the opposite.”  

“We men are confounding creatures.” Maeve snorted with laughter, finding a great deal of pleasure in the fact that Beau was a willing participant in her mockery of the moody cowboy. Unfortunately, Arthur was not nearly as amused. The man in question had already begun to make his escape, shoving past several servants in the process. Maeve shook her head and threw a sheepish grin Beau’s way. There was only so much silent apologizing that could be done on a person’s behalf.  

“I should probably go chase after him. We’ll get those things to Penelope for you, promise!” Maeve waved frantically and dashed after her quickly retreating partner in crime, leaving Beau Gray to himself once more. The young man cradled the leather-bound book closely to his chest, running one thumb over the bumpy crest of its binding with absentminded care. There had been... _something_ about that redheaded woman that was strangely familiar, yet he was absolutely certain they had never met. He paused. 

 _A flash in memory: two men, on the trail to San Denis. A conversation, a drink, and a small, folded photograph._  

 

\----- 

 

As it turned out, Beau Gray was correct. Penelope Braithwaite was  _something else._ In a country full of anger, violence and hatred, the woman was a surprising bloom of humanity. At the presentation of Beau’s gift, she had invited them both for a short afternoon tea.  

“We don’t got time for this.” Arthur growled, sweat dripping down the back of his neck with increasing unpleasantness. As if knowing his weakness, Penelope raised one fine brow and gestured her manicured hand towards a pitcher of lemonade, tantalizing beads of water forming on the chilled outer glass.  _What a power play._  

“I, for one, think we have plenty of time.” Maeve darted into the seat next to the young woman, wasting no second before pouring herself a cup. Arthur sighed deeply and threw an offended look up at the sky for his bad luck. However, the call of cold refreshments was too much to bear. He settled himself opposite the pair of women, averting his gaze so as to avoid a reminder of Maeve’s existence. 

“So what has you two fighting?” Penelope took a delicate sip from her glass, her blue eyes trained on Arthur’s reaction. The man slammed his cup down upon the tea table, jaw clenched. 

“None of your business.” 

“Arthur, don’t—” 

“I don’t mean to pry,” Penelope confessed, “but it seems such a shame to me that you two should be so adamant at ignorin’ one another. If Beau and I had the freedom to be together, I wouldn’t want to spend a  _second_ in conflict.” Maeve blanched, retreating slightly from the table in anticipation of her partner’s fury. Arthur stared down the blonde woman, his eyes hard, unforgivable. 

“No offense, Miss Braithwaite, but you don’t know  _nothin'_ about this, so stop actin’ like you do.” Penelope paused, a picture of childlike naivety, and then caved with a small, sheepish smile. 

“I’m sorry. Beau always says I’m tryin’ to fix the world when the world don’t want it. I forget myself sometimes. Forgive me, Mr. Morgan, Miss Bailey.” Maeve’s heart clenched. She reached out one hand to grip Penelope’s in her own. 

“Don’t stop doing that. The world needs a little fixing. Just leave fixin’ Arthur to me.”  

“Or,” Arthur interrupted, “you could leave me be. That’s a promising option.” Both women rolled their eyes in tandem, nearly identical in expression. As the lemonade disappeared from Maeve’s cup, Arthur removed himself from the gazebo in a fit of impatience. 

“Best get goin, Maeve.” The redhead sighed, placing her glass onto the table with gentle care.  

“I suppose he’s right. Thank you for the lemonade, Penelope. I truly hope you’re able to figure out this thing with Beau. Good luck.” She stood, patting the young woman’s hand once more for good measure and joining her more eager partner, his eyes scouting the horizon for guards. Penelope smiled softly and raised her gloved hand in farewell. 

“And I truly hope you’re able to figure out your problems, Maeve...Arthur. May we all find happiness.”  

 

\----- 

 

The escape from the Braithwaite estate proved far easier than their journey inside, and quickly enough the pair was able to reach their hitched horses, both seemingly unaware of their owner’s trials. Arthur swiped his sweaty brow with one hand and straightened his hat with the other, a distant, disconnected sort of look clouding his expression. As the two mounted up, he cleared his throat. 

“I don’t hate you, Maeve.” The woman in question choked out a bitter laugh and dug her heels into her horse’s sides, spurring it into motion with Arthur following close behind. 

“I’m sure there are other negative ways of describing our relationship that you could find more palatable. Just think on it for a second.” Maeve spat, the heat of frustration coloring her neck and chest red. Surprisingly, Arthur had the grace to look somewhat ashamed. 

“I’m...sorry. Penelope was right 'bout fighting. I was— _am_ angry and fed up with myself, and it comes ‘cross like it’s your fault. I should not have gone an’ jumped down your throat before. I ‘spose I didn’t know what I was feelin’ and didn’t know how to respond right.” Arthur messed with the brim of his hat, restless energy inspiring his fingers to useless action. At Maeve’s probing gaze, he paused. 

“I meant what I said then, but I didn’t say it good. It is... _hard_ to think you believe I’m good, ‘cause I’m not.” Maeve attempted to interrupt but Arthur held up one hand, cutting her off. 

“I’m  _not.”_ He growled, eyes pointed, “I don’t want you to argue. I was raised in a gang and started  killin’ at a young age. It’s all I know. I  jus’  _don’t know_ how to be good.” 

“I can teach you.” Maeve grinned, back straightening in the saddle. His eyes widened. 

“I’m sorry,  _what_?”  

“You’re not too old to learn. I can teach you.” After a second to contemplate her words, Arthur started laughing, leaning forward onto Xerxes’ neck for support. It was infectious. Maeve couldn’t stop looking at him—all crinkly-eyed and toothy smiles. Finally, the man gained back his breath. 

“You...really  _are_ somethin’ else, Maeve Bailey. I do not understand you, and yet it’s amusing to try.” She just...couldn’t respond to that. With a soft smile pulling at her lips, Maeve let her horse take the lead and closed her eyes for a second, letting the afternoon sun warm her face, heartbeat slowing with every wisp of that southern breeze. Beside her, a breath. 

 _“Isaac would have liked you.”_ The woman’s eyelids flickered open and she turned to glance at Arthur, questions on the tip of her tongue. But for just once, Maeve didn’t speak. She waited and let him sit with his words, the sound of hoofbeats in the dirt their only accompaniment.  

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9: Leverage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was a little late! I had to bribe Mrs. Muse with chocolate. I may have to edit the scheduling a bit due to life and school getting crazy, but I'll never abandon this. Just gotta figure out what sort of update schedule works best!

 

It was eight in the evening and Amos Rawley was growing tired of his new companion. Beau Gray certainly meant well—or at least that’s what he was in the process of convincing himself. It wasn’t very believable. The endearing idiot had long since drowned himself in several generous glasses of bourbon, and after the seventh loss in a round of dominoes, allowed his gaze to wander to the recently acquainted stranger. Amos had his hands folded neatly in his lap, expression carefully crafted into one of placid entertainment.  

“What’s got a man like you headed this a-ways anyway?” Beau hummed in question, attempting to place his shot glass down with grace but instead wildly underestimating his power and slamming the poor thing against the saloon table unceremoniously. Amos winced. 

“Just got a little business in San Denis.” Beau blinked, face flushed. 

“Oh, I do wish I could come with. There’s somethin’ so dreadfully romantic about the city, isn’t there?”  

“Sure, Mr. Gray. Of course.” Amos drawled, blue eyes dragging around the layout of the bar and meticulously cataloging each patron. Not finding what he was looking for, the man huffed and took another swig from his glass, knee bouncing. 

“You sure seem antsy. Waiting for someone? A lady of the night, perhaps?” Beau winked. Unfortunately, his companion was not amused, brow furrowed and mouth held in a tight line. 

“If I wanted a woman I would have had one by now. I’m just...waiting for a partner.” And then, as though the universe had heard his petulance, the door to the saloon swung open, and a huge, blocky man lumbered inside. The small crop of black hair that remained on his otherwise shiny head was combed backwards and tucked neatly behind his ears. Beau had never seen such  _ears_ on a person before—they were barely recognizable, swollen and bunched like cauliflower left in the garden a day too long. 

Despite the man’s intimidating appearance, Amos seemed to perk up at his entry. He stood, shoving his chair back and hiking his light jacket back over his shoulders with relative haste. As Amos bent and swung his satchel across his figure, the hurried movement caused one side pocket to become unhinged. A single item fluttered to the floor like a wayward feather in the wind, and Beau, nearly beside himself in an effort to help, rushed to grasp it in his hands. For a second, he paused. It was a picture: small, and clearly folded and unfolded frequently due to the whitened crease lines. 

At the realization of what had just happened, Amos lunged forward and snatched the picture from Beau’s grasp, his face twisted into frantic anger.  

“Don’t  _touch_ that.” He snarled and tucked the photograph safely back into his satchel once more, leaving Beau stunned. 

“I’m sorry,” the younger man blurted, “you’ve got a beautiful woman, though. Always loved red hair.” Amos threw a scathing look in his direction but wasn’t given an opportunity to do much more than that—his partner clamping a thick fist around the blond’s shoulder and forcing him to follow as the two made their hasty exit. With a surprised ‘ _humph’,_ Beau Gray slumped over the table. In a slightly drunken haze, he snuggled his head of curly hair against his crossed arms and let a single finger trail along the rim of a long abandoned shot glass.  

“What a  _rude_ man.”  

 

\----- 

 

“What a  _rude_ man.” Maeve Bailey complained, shoving her volcanic pistol back into the holster as her opponent dropped to the ground, a bullet buried deep in his skull. 

“Well, you  _were_ tryin’ to steal his stage.” Arthur drawled while Sean snorted with laughter in the background. 

“Correction—I’m just robbing it. There’s a big difference. But something tells me he doesn’t care so much anymore.” The mismatched trio quickly made themselves well acquainted with the stagecoach lockbox. At the sight of a beautifully large stack of money clips, Sean sighed, a sort of dreamy smile pulling at his lips. 

“Miss Maeve, I sure do love it when ‘ye talk tough. Gives me butterflies, it does.”  

“That’s exactly why I do it, of course.” Arthur rolled his eyes at their banter, but the second that Maeve’s shoulders began to shake in laughter Sean physically lit up with pride. 

“’Ye ‘oughta let me take you dancin’, show you a right good time.” At the Irishman’s proposition, Maeve grinned widely, purposefully ignoring her less entertained partner in an effort to make him even more irritated. She was successful. 

“I used to love doing that,” Maeve pondered, “it’s been awhile.” Sean’s brows shot up to hide underneath his mop of copper-colored hair. He gasped for good measure, clutching one hand to his heart as though he were about to faint.  

“You’re tellin’ me none of these chaps asked ‘ye dancin’ yet? Not even old Arthur here?” The man in question pinched the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger, looking as though he were ready to hop on Xerxes and desert them altogether. 

“Unless you went an’ forgot, we got a lot goin’ on that’s a little more important than dancin’.” 

“I seem to remember Dutch saying something along the lines of ‘let’s not just survive, let’s live’—or am I wrong?” Maeve teased Arthur, reaching out to pinch him on the arm. The man slapped her hand away with an impatient huff. 

“Dutch says a ‘lotta things.” Arthur wiped one hand across his stubbled chin and reached beside Sean to grab the last money clip in the stagecoach lockbox, tucking the goods away deep in his satchel. 

“Well,” Sean meandered over to Maeve with a dangerous grin on his face, “I think we can take a little break from survivin’ if it means a proper dance, and now’s as good o’ time as any, right, Miss Maeve?” 

“You wanna go right  _now_?” She blinked in surprise, and Sean shrugged. 

“Why not?” A few feet away, Xerxes snorted impatiently, bobbing his head to draw Arthur’s attention. Unsurprisingly, the man seemed as antsy as his own horse. 

“I don’t trust you goin’ with Maeve alone,” he stated slowly, “who knows what sort of improper ideas you got of treatin’ a lady?” Sean and Maeve looked at each other, an almost identical devious expression growing across each face. 

“So come with, Arthur.” Maeve offered, flushed and grinning as though an unexpected gift had just been placed in her lap. It took a second, but a look of realization came upon Arthur, and he threw up his hands in defense. Unfortunately, it was too late. He was doomed. 

“This is a bat-shit idea, I ain’t no dancer.” But neither Maeve nor Sean was fazed, and there was no turning them off this ridiculously perilous course. 

“Aw, come now. ‘Yer never too old to learn somethin’ new.” 

“Come on, Arthur. Have a little fun with us.” The man paused, throwing his eyes up to the sky in a silent prayer as his two friends waited with bated breath, smiles barely contained to their faces. 

“...Fine, I’ll come. But _I won’t be_ _havin_ _’ no fun_.” And just like that, two pairs of arms were thrown around his shoulders, his ears nearly blown out by cheers of victory. 

 

\----- 

 

“You know, despite my best efforts to the contrary, I am havin’ fun.” Maeve giggled at Arthur’s unexpected admission. Somehow, despite his earlier objection, the two had ended up paired up and dancing carelessly amongst the crowd of young people. His arms were wrapped tightly around her warm waist, fingers gently brushing against the fabric of her light blue dress. A few feet away, Sean was doing some sort of Irish jig while three women ‘ooh-ed’ and ‘ah-ed’ to feed his already generous ego. Maeve swayed back and forth to a jaunty tune from the saloon pianist, her hands thrown around Arthur’s neck comfortably as though they knew naturally where to fall. 

“I know how adverse you are to experiencing fun like everyone else. Congratulations for breaking out of that miserable habit.” Maeve teased, her stomach flipping at the look on Arthur’s face—a confusing combination of irritation, warmth, and surprise. 

“Yes, well, I’ve had a good teacher so far.” He smirked as the redheaded woman flushed in embarrassment. It wasn’t often that he was able to make her lose her confident composure, but when he did... _well._  

Just then, the melody picked up, the floor of the saloon flooding with more couples eager to dance. Maeve had only a second of warning from the flash of mischief in Arthur’s eye, and then his grip around her tightened, their movements becoming carefree and wild in beat with the tune of the song. With her skirts flying about, Maeve laughed, gasping, and buried her head into Arthur’s neck. Despite the crowd of elbows and misplaced feet, Arthur held fast, keeping surprisingly on beat for someone who robbed and killed for a living. Maeve’s lips pulled wide against the skin of his shoulder. 

“I told ye this would be fun!” Sean called from the other side of the room, looking completely in his element, eyes bright, the blush of exertion high on his cheeks and two women clinging to his sides. Maeve felt the vibration of a chuckle from Arthur’s chest just before he removed one hand from her waist to throw a vulgar gesture in Sean’s direction. 

“You’re so mean to him!” Maeve slapped her partner’s arm, all teeth and sore cheeks. To muffle her complaint, Arthur swung the woman into a dramatic dip with a single raised eyebrow and a roguish grin. Maeve’s coppery hair flared out and danced around her face, having long come loose from her messy bun, but Arthur had no complaints. Her entire being was something not entirely human. Although the two were lost in the rush of other couples chasing their own amusement, Maeve floated above it all as though she were toeing the line between Heaven and Earth, and Arthur had no desire to tug her down from those heights.  

And just for this moment in time, the weights on his back disappeared, and he was left with an idea of what life could have been like without all the misery and death. Without having to kill a stagecoach driver for his money. Without forcing debts from desperate underdogs. Without the tragedy of Eliza and Isaac. And, despite it all, without Dutch. What would life had been like if he had real parents? If he hadn’t had to grow up so young?  

And yet, with Maeve on his fingertips so willingly, so easily...Arthur wondered if maybe it was possible for all of that pain to be healed by one person spinning in his arms. At the moment, with her face glowing in the lamplight, he couldn’t find it in his heart to claim otherwise. 

 

\----- 

 

“Mr. Rawley, let me make your situation completely clear.” At those quiet words, Amos swallowed hard, the larger man taking just one more step forward to corner him against the brick alley wall, gray eyes glinting like sharpened steel. 

“I know my debts. Don’t threaten me like I’m not fully aware of your rope around my neck.” A hand shot out to grasp him by the shirt collar, and yet he did not waver. 

“Remember what you leveraged. Or, rather,  _who_ you leveraged.” The man drawled, reaching slowly around Amos’ form to grasp at his satchel, flipping up the latch on one particular side pocket. And just like that, in his two thick, scarred fingers, he gripped a photo. It took but one painstaking second. Maeve Bailey’s portrait was flung into Amos face. He did not wince, pale blue eyes resting on the photograph for a single moment before reassessing his partner with cold indifference. 

“Don’t be so melodramatic. I know what I promised.”  

“Tell me. Say it again. Let the words sit in your fucking throat until it’s all you can speak. Tell me.” Amos did not break his gaze, keeping up with the other man level for level, jaw clenched. 

“If I am not able to fulfill what I owe, as per our contract, I give you permission to have Maeve Bailey.” 

“Finish it. Tell me.” For barely a second, Amos’ eyes darted to that photo. 

“If I am not able to fulfill what I owe, as per our contract, I give you permission to kill Maeve Bailey however you want, for however long you should wish it to take.” 

 _“Finish it.”_  

“Should I fail, I give you permission to do as you wish...with my audience.” 

 

 

 

 


End file.
